


Blood Betrayed

by louisegrey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Magic, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisegrey/pseuds/louisegrey
Summary: Hundreds of years, the Sorting Hat has put powerful, wealthy Greys in Slytherin. It's canon. Heritage. But that all goes to hell when bold, beautiful Guinevere Grey is yanked from tradition, and Sorted into a new reality: one with blood traitors, Mudbloods, and shameless family betrayal. Beginning in the Fourth Year at Hogwarts, the troublesome spitfire navigates a romance with a Triwizard Champion, her best friend's feelings, and her family's elite reputation. But when the Dark Lord reappears and takes prisoners, she must learn a new kind of skill — how to survive. And in the middle of it all, she must fight the biggest battle of all: the urge and longing for someone that she knows is wrong for her.Written in back-and-forth Vera and Draco's POVs.I hope you enjoy Vera Grey as much as I enjoyed writing her: she's the fire and fury I imagine to make for a wild ride. And the perfect "other half" to the dark, brooding bad boy we love so willingly.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Original Female Character(s), Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

  
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

  
"Guinevere Grey."

I march — unwavering — up the stone steps. _Don't look nervous_. Waste of time. I'm not _scared_. I'm confident in the Sorting Hat.

 _Slytherin_. Following lamely in the shadow of my parents. My sister. The sprawling, opinionated portraits of ancestors which line the wide halls of my childhood home. _Astrum Palace._ I can almost picture it here under these Gothic buttresses. _Ah._

"It's Vera," I say sharply to the cat-eyed McGonagall on the steps. The woman resists rolling her eyes. _Worse than her sister... and her mother_ , she's probably thinking. It forces a smile to dance in the corners of my mouth. I love it, giving this professor a little something to fear. Dread.

"Very well, Miss Grey, sit down."

I obey, and the hat falls on my head, clutching the thrush of golden hair, wiring itself to my mind. Exploring.

 _"Another Grey,"_ it sneers. _"Centuries, I've been putting Greys in Slytherin. The ambition... the power... the proclivity for greatness."_

A smirk splits across my face. I make eyes at the first years at my feet. They stare back, dazzled. _Of course._ They've heard frightening things about Slytherin. The only person smirking back at me is my longest childhood friend, peering behind a pair of icy eyes. Draco. We've spent our lives anticipating this day — Slytherins, the two of us. From bright families with long, pretty histories, the greatest minds. Purebloods.

_"I see it's all here, in this one. But there's something else, too... something... peculiar."_

_No_ , I think — it's a yell inside of my head. _It has to be Slytherin._

 _"Does it have to be Slytherin?"_ The hat mocks. _"I see other greatness too. You can find it, you know. You are not always as you've been told. You, perhaps, are different."_

 _No_. I'm seized by a rush of fear. I don't want different. I want to be the exact replica of myself that lives in my mind — fearsome, successful, _Slytherin_. The anxiety ripples through me as the hat comes to a conclusion.

_"Perhaps you'll find it... in GRYFFINDOR!"_

No. It can't be. The front table falls into commotion. Clapping and hollering. A few of the older ones looked slyly to the side, where the Slytherins sit, staring back. Older kids know about the Grey girls. Artemis Grey, a third year, my sister, stares dejectedly back, furious. She's saved a spot for me, which is immediately filled by the next name on the list — Pansy Parkinson. I slink to the Gryffindor table, stifling tears.

 _Don't cry. Not here. Don't let anyone see._ I fall into the bench next to a cheery bourbon-haired girl. 

"I'm Hermione Granger," she says warmly. I shake her hand, but can't muster a word. I'll cry. "Vera, did you say? Guinevere? Which would you prefer?"

"Vera," I choke. Two others clap my back, reaching for my hand. I take it, but my insides are numb, turning to salt. The sound of Professor McGonagall brings me back.

"Draco Malfoy," she booms.

The familiar silver-haired boy moves to the chair, slinking with the same confidence I felt just moments ago. The hat doesn't touch his head. Before it can writhe and wonder about Draco Malfoy, it shouts _"SLYTHERIN!"_ with trust and the jade green table begins shouting.

 _No_. I need him. I close my eyes, imagining their cheers are for me. No. The sound of another name pulls me out.

"Harry Potter!" McGonagall shouts. Silence.

I recognize this stranger. Or at least his name. I've heard stories in whispers through the years. Not from my family, of course... Draco and I have talked about him before, about what he's done. Draco knows more than me — I've been sheltered. 

As the small, dark-haired boy mounts the stool, the hat twists and leers the same way it had for me. It wonders if he should go to Slytherin. My chest tightens. Him... but not me? Finally, it screams out, _"GRYFFINDOR!"_

The table explodes. "We've got Potter!" some of the older boys shout. The young boy moves toward the table, eyes twinkling, and sits on the empty wood next to me. As he does, the older kids thump him on the back, reaching over me. I duck under the swarm of robes.

As the bodies settle, he turns to face me. I mimic the action audibly. His are wild and green.

"I'm Vera," I say firmly, shaking his hand. He's firm back. Interesting. I rarely see it in children my age. I have my parents to thank for that.

"Harry," he said warmly. 

"Are you relieved?" I ask. "You didn't want to be in Slytherin?"

"Of course not," he says confidently. _Odd. Must be Muggle-born_. The next boy, a Weasley, leans toward me.

"You're Vera Grey," he says, perplexed. "What're you doing in Gryffindor?"

Rude question. "I might ask you the same," I retort, bothered. The red haired boy blinks back.

"I—my whole family's been in Gryffindor for ages. But—but not yours."

"No," I tell him. _Don't cry._ Other ears prick up, turning to see who Harry Potter is chatting with. "What do you suggest I do about it?"

"The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes," Hermione informs him. "And it's not about heritage. It's about ambition and intellect and the interior mind."

I feel better. I like this Hermione girl. But I'm not sure I believe it. I'm a Slytherin. Certainly, as I've read in histories and heard from older students, all it _took_ was pure blood and a cunning mind, two things I was absolutely certain I had.

I stifle tears. _Dammit, not now, Vera_. I can wait. I can be happy here, for the moment. But the Sorting Hat is wrong, and now I'm plotting how to spend every moment trying to prove that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year 4: The Triwizard Tournament

** VERA **

It’s almost ridiculous, really, how much I roll my eyes. Bad for my health, maybe. Barely November and I catch myself rolling them at least twice an hour, usually over Mad Eye’s obscene practices, or Hermione’s well-meaning snark, making teachers look bad. It’s her worst feature. And her best.

 _Focus, Vera._ I’m jabbing my quill furiously into the page, dying for Potions to move faster — for this blasted essay to appear out of thin air. No luck. Of course not. I realize I didn’t do the reading like I should have. Hermione, next to me, is even keel, her quill floating like butter across the parchment. _Ugh_. I miss the days of cheating.

I write a bit more — enough to get a fair score. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Apart from Hermione, and in stiff competition with the sullen blond boy in the corner, I’m at least second rank. But this year has been one distraction after another. The Triwizard Cup. Our hallways are bursting at the seams with snooty, upturned Beauxbatons and groups of eagle-eyed Bulgarians. And our friends, of course, are the subject of eyes, everywhere we turn. It’s the major fault of being friends with Harry Potter. We’re always in step with one another, the four of us, but the stares and whispers follow. Him, mostly. But it’s been me, too, because I’ve got my feet in two ponds — I’m here, with my longtime schoolmates, supporting my less-than-likable best friends (Harry is the subject of horrid rumors), but I’m also over there, with _him_. 

Cedric.

It’s been six weeks since the World Cup, where we met. Him, shaking hands like a man, treating me like a real person. I see his eyes now, in the back of my mind, honey-colored and framed by a pair of dark lashes, blinking at me, flashing a warm, rosy smile. I was enamored from the moment I found the Weasleys in the rafters, but couldn’t say so. Of course not. I’m not going to loosen my dangerous persona for some battering, handsome stranger. 

But that’s exactly what I did. Cedric knew about me — knew my wild reputation, troubling professors, stirring up the Slytherins. Always defending my friends, to a fault. Getting in fights. A week after the match — not even — Cedric sent me a letter, filled with questions about the bland details I’d bored him with during our conversation. He was curious about my father’s job, the sketchy pond behind our home, my four sisters, all in devastatingly close proximity to me. And all Slytherins. It was a subject of fascination. Yes, the Greys were always in Slytherin. An unflinching family tradition. But there was me. The second-born, called out of character to Gryffindor. Nobody was more surprised than I was, though my parents certainly raised their eyebrows at the story. Or… at me. 

But, Cedric. He was enthralled by it. 

“Generations, we’ve been in Hufflepuff,” he told me as we gaped over the arena, hundreds of floors below us. “Can’t imagine something else. Must have given them a real scare.” My parents. 

“I think I’ve definitely given them trouble,” I’d muttered back, honest.

“So I’ve heard.” A crushing, full smile broke across his lips. Impossible not to return. 

That was the origin of the crush. Try as I might to bury it — beg it to stay away from me — it was living like a flame in my chest, burning wild. Distracting me from important studies. Distracting me from my friendships.

Harry. To my right, eyes on his essay, he scratches his head, trying to solve the mystery of his next sentence. Poor kid. He’s not happy to be here. He’s got other things on his mind, like the dragon he has to conquer in a few weeks. He’s being bullied by the bafoons who think he put his name in that Goblet. Of course he didn’t. He may not be one to shy away from thrills, but he's certainly not one to _thrust_ himself at them. The chaos _finds_ him. 

Just as it did in this tournament. 

These three years, since we were teeny children on the train, Harry looks at me the way others are too afraid to. He’s not intimidated by my brash comments. He enjoys the fodder, often making Hermione shake her head at us. “You two,” she says, bitter, “feeding each other bad ideas.” We do. It’s our favorite game.

And Harry, like me, doesn’t like the idea of being roped into a romance. But he, also like me, can’t help himself from feeling it. And I know — pride and big headedness aside — that he feels it when he looks at me. And he’s intimidated by Cedric, for more reasons than one. Or perhaps that’s just my vanity speaking.

I’m finished. I dot the final, inky period and drag myself up. The first to finish — or the first brave enough to admit it. I’m walking toward Snape’s desk, mentally rehashing the effects of rootworst and ryeberry on contagious swelling. The man’s snake eyes roll up, followed by a firm hand. He snaps the paper out of my grip, as though I’ll suddenly change my mind. I cast him one half-smile — he deserves it. He’s never given me a hard time the way he does others. I’m the better student: unproblematic, well read. Keeping my knowledge to myself. Judging the character of my scores and essays, I don’t have to prove my intelligence out loud. He admires that about me. I save the problems for the other teachers.

Only one other person stands from their desk as I turn away from Snape's. I see his silver hair before I can process his face, and then he's standing in my path — barring me from the route back. Draco. He looks like he's just woken up — eyes heavy, calculating. It's strictly competition. I wonder if he's been watching my quill the whole time with bated breath, trying to beat me to the finish line. I'll pretend that's it.

I smirk, daring him to step closer. We move, our bodies challenging one another for the tight space. As we come close, he refuses to bend out of the way, and my shoulders come in contact with his chest — broader, over the summer. A full head taller than me, now. Our heads are still somehow — close. He doesn't look at me as he molds past, refusing to break his stare from Snape's desk. But I still feel his breath linger between us. I let the hem of my skirt rustle against his pants as he drags his leg out from under me, shouldering around. Abrasive. He exhales as he does it. _Hah._ I take that as a victory. _Out of my way, Malfoy._

I keep walking, letting go of the silently violent encounter.

As I draw toward the door, I hear the shuffle of my less bold classmates, finally convincing themselves to turn in their essays. I smirk. Somebody always has to be first. It’s always me.

~*~

“Finally,” Cedric whispers, checking his watch. I’m leaning against the pillar, toeing the castle’s edge, where the stone walkway meets the grounds. He’s moving faster than usual, anxious to keep our time. The sun is glittering in its final moments, ready to sleep. That devastating smile is on his lips again. “Nearly had to perform an Imperius for Flitwick to let me out on time. He’s trying to… equip me.”

 _Ah_. The first task. “Are you feeling… equipped?”

“Not at all.” Cedric blows out an exhale, then moves past me, confident in his direction. I spin and follow. I’ll let him lead tonight. “Opposite, really. Not sure what to expect. Mostly interviews… hate those. Press. Photographs. And that damned Ball.”

The Yule Ball. It was announced yesterday, but I’m shuffling it away for now — irrelevant. I’m not going to dwell there, considering it’s grossly overshadowed by the next task. Dragons. Cedric knows by now. Harry, being as moral as he is, was quick to tell Cedric. I’m glad. I was sick, living in the secret. Friends are vitally more important than crushes.

“The dragons,” I repeat, letting the fear simmer between us. “No clue what you’ll do?”

“I mean — fairly straightforward. A few ideas, spells. Might try and get it sleeping quick.”

I nod, but my eyes sell me out. It’s unconvincing.

“I’ve got it,” Cedric says with ease, launching as I stir in discomfort. “I’ve got tricks up my sleeve.”

“Fairly laissez-faire for a man who’s about to face a fire-breathing demon,” I say darkly. He knows. But he’s utterly confident. I like that about him. “If you die, I’m sure the school will still back you over Harry,” I tell him, glimmering with humor. We’re approaching the lake now. The eerie blackness shimmers against the sky. It reeks of rain and metal. 

“How is Potter?” Cedric suddenly asks. It’s obligatory, but the voice is steeped in a rare sincerity. He wants to know. “I hate the heckling. Told my friends to lay off, but can’t always help it—”

“He’s fine. Doesn’t bother him.” That was only somewhat honest. “Not sure he’s looking to win it… more like, just get through.”

Cedric looks away, tongue twisting inside of his mouth, searching for a response that won’t make him sound like an ass. “Rough odds, I s’pose.”

“He’s beat rougher,” I mutter. Cedric’s huffed laugh tells me that he agrees.

“I’m more worried about the Ball,” Cedric admits. I sense where this is going. My gut is roiling, the image of Harry — cryptic, defeated as I continue, every day, to overlook his gestures, pretend that they don’t exist — simmers in my head. Harry. His competitor. “Bit of a coward, really, when it comes to important stuff like that.”

 _No_. It’s too soon. I’m going to edge out of this conversation. “Dragons are a much bigger deal than dancing, Cedric.”

“I’m a terrific dancer,” he says, glimmering, “but a bad date.”

 _Fine_. He's going to ask. I’ll let him ask. There’s no avoiding it at this point — may as well brace for the question. It’s my answer that I’ll have to see. I’ll let my instinct win this battle.

“I disagree,” I tell him, smiling, feeding him what he wants. Cedric likes this.

“Might ease the anxiety if I like my partner,” he whispers. His feet are quiet. He’s stopped. I turn as the final flush of daylight glints in the sky, leaving us in a haze of twilight. “But you’re not making this easy, either.”

“Am I making it hard?” I ask, nearly defensive. _Shut up, Vera._ Cedric is being a gentleman.

“I am,” he says, certain. I’m blushing.

“I’ll make it easier, then.” I shut my eyes, squeezing them so he sees how very tightly shut they are. There’s a distinct sigh that sounds like a smile.

“Come with me? To the Yule Ball?”

I close my eyes for two reasons. It’s easier for me to picture: the Ball, the dress, the evening. I’m mostly agreeing for the chaotic dancing part, since waltzing sounds ludicrous. The second visual is my friends, heads cocked as I tell them who I’m going with.

The enemy? No. We were all together just weeks ago, Ron’s mouth agape like a puppy, thirsting for Cedric’s greatness. Hermione, Ginny, and I admiring in secret, giggling over his features. 

“Yes,” I say, and I mean it. Before I can open my eyes, I feel the smooth hand mingling with mine. His fresh, airy breath tickles my nose, near my eyes. He’s right there. I breath out just as our lips come together, sinking into each other. He’s a good kisser. Slow, sure of himself. His hands erupt as our lips fuse, our bodies joining. His hands are warm. Exceptionally warm. Hot, even. They’re on my neck and face, courteous, gentle.

When we break, I see him in fullness again. 

“Dammit,” I whisper, smiling. 

“So,” Cedric whispers. We’re walking back toward the castle. Quietly, I’m aching for more. Sensibly, I’m feeling the rumors come to life. He’ll tell someone. They’ll tell someone. “Does this make you my traitor… or his?”

~*~

“I have to tell you something.”

My eyes scan again, making sure we’re alone. Harry blinks up at me from the common room sofa. Have I made it in time? It’s been one day and the whispers are following me everywhere, along with a panic among the boys who are now aggressively worried about snatching up a decent date. I’m a bit bruised by it, actually. I want to tell my friends first before they hear it from some squabbling Lavender Brown.

“Is this about Cedric?” Harry asks, unamused.

 _Dammit_. 

“He’s asked me to the Yule Ball.” I speak, as usual, before the thoughts and rumors can build behind his green eyes. And good hell, they are painfully green today. Why am I afraid? 

“I heard,” Harry says slowly, dropping his eyes to the Prophet. Him, reading the paper? No way. It’s a barrier, keeping me away. Dammit, this is bad timing. Ron breezes by us in the Common Room, casting Harry a brutish glare. He’s being a child. Harry’s eyes are dark, staring back at him until one of them screams. Ron blinks and breaks away, off to his dorm. _Stupid as_ s. Wish he’d grow up.

“I had to tell you first—”

“Why?” A quick question. I’ll try to keep the pace.

“He’s your competition, Harry, and I’m your friend. Seems right for you to know.”

“So we’re all in the business of doing what’s right?”

“So you’re bothered.” I’m more annoyed than I expected. Harry’s attitude is at an all time high. I try to understand — distanced from a friend, ridiculed by classmates. Thinking about how to kill a dragon. His response is as brash as mine would be. 

“Not bothered, you can do whatever you please.” 

“You’re bothered,” I say again, poking at it. 

“Cedric’s my friend, too,” Harry says in a tone that says otherwise. “Go… dance with him, do whatever you like. Not sure why you’re asking my permission.”

“A decent thing for friends to do.” I’ll bite. Harry knows this, but his anger is talking.

“Since when do you care to be decent?” 

"Really?” I warn him. “You’re low on friends, Harry. Don’t spoil it.” He exhales so hard, I can see it leave his nostrils. But I’m right. He knows. He won’t spoil my friendship, at least not today. Besides, the feeling is still clawing in his chest. I almost see it. It’s quiet in the Gryffindor common room, except for the fire, which seems to double in size, crackling and drawing shadows on the maroon walls.

“Go. Have a blast,” he says at last, and stands to leave. _Great_. So he’d rather sit in a cold dorm with a bitter Ron than here with me. Lovely.


	3. Chapter 3

_**VERA**_ :

You’d think there wasn’t a Triwizard Cup with all the whispers are about Cedric and me. Older girls are angry. Rightfully so. There isn’t a decent crop of boys in the higher years, and I’ve just snatched a winner. A pack of fifth year Ravenclaws sink past me with daggering eyes as I emerge from the Great Hall at noon, head down, toward Charms. Hermione’s shoes clap behind me, catching up.

“Were you going to tell me about Cedric?” she asks, incensed. _C’mon, not her, too._ "The Ball. It's sent everyone into a tizzy, him asking so early. I heard Fleur Delacour was snatched last hour." 

“People can’t seem to get it out of their mouths quick enough.” I breathe out.

We head into the staircases, shuddering and shifting like a Tetris board. 

“Are you surprised? He’s a Champion now.”

“He’s no different than he was a month ago,” I tell her, which makes her eyes bulge.

“Don’t undermine it. He’s quite famous now, actually. All the _Prophet_ can talk about.” 

It’s true — his name and story is glittering on every page. I know it’s partly falsified: a dreamy version of the truth. Cedric’s mum died years ago in some unspeakable way, leaving a cheery Amos Diggory to raise his only son. As we duck into Charms, I’m distracted by the gaggle of students hovering in the corner. A dash of white hair distracts me. Draco. The sneer on his face is one I recognize — he’s formulated a joke, on the tip of his tongue. He’s keen to share it.

I move to the desk beside Hermione, inches from Harry, who’s already head down in his book. We haven’t spoken since last night, when he stormed off. He’s probably already been a victim to Draco’s harassment today, because he doesn’t look up when Malfoy moves closer, grinning mockingly. Hungry for trouble. Draco drops on top of the desk across from me, leering. Showing off his glowing grimace.

“Hear there’s a fox in the chicken coop,” he sneers, eyes gliding between the pair of us. “Must be tough, Potter, to see your girlfriend snogging the competition. Bad blood?” 

Goyle chuckles.

I’m not sitting for this. I stand up, sauntering around the edge of the desk, so close to Draco that my skirt brushes the jade lapel of his robes, the ice in his grey eyes freezing over. He forces a cocky smile, but I know there’s an unsettled fear behind it. He’s gotten braver over the years, but I feel the flinch of his bones — he’s still afraid of me.

“I’ll say this once, Malfoy,” I say lightly, almost unbothered. The tone of nonchalance makes his brows steepen. “Have you noticed that no one’s listening to you? Actually. Don’t answer that. You haven’t. So I’ll tell you now… we’ve got important things to manage. Tournaments. Friends. You are the last of those. In fact, you don’t even make the list.”

People are listening now. Hermione’s face is intense in the corner of my eyes, and Harry has turned out of his book. Good.

“I’m pointing Potter here to the facts,” Draco says evenly, forming his thought, “that his little friends are weasels. Making sure he’s in his right mind.” Draco’s face darkens now. “Not sure why I bother. Anyone who’s friends with _you_ has a problem.”

“Glad you’re concerned for my well being,” Harry jabs. Draco’s face pinches downward, cruel. “Can you go now? I don’t want to see you.” He says it to Draco, but the faintest glower in my direction makes me wonder if he’s talking to me. It stings.

Draco pushes his body off the desk, our legs mingling for a moment. 

“If you run out of friends, Potter,” he says, sliding back toward his desk, “I’m sure the Bulgarians would love to have you.”

The other Slytherins snicker in the corner. I won’t waste my breath on it. Draco fades from view as Flitwick emerges, but I can still feel a pair of cold eyes on me. I jerk my head in their direction. Draco. My stare — which is usually bitter enough to frighten him away — is matched in his cruel grey eyes. We stare at each other for a long moment before one final, chaotic smile splits across his face.

~*~

**_DRACO:_ **

“People are asking too fast.”

Dammit, I’ve heard Pansy’s voice enough — high, squirrelly, always edged with an ulterior motive. She wants one of us to ask her to the Yule Ball. Her eyes scan, gauging reactions. No. I won't give her one. She’s watching Blaise, hopeful, those hungry dark eyes pleading. Dammit. If I don’t ask someone, it’ll end up being her. I can see it unfolding. Blaise, asking Nora, her quieter, more tolerable sidekick. Crabbe and Goyle getting cold feet and bowing out. Theodore asking someone a year above us like a madman. Overconfident. I’d end up with Pansy. Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of lack of options. Maybe out of the sheer ceremony of this thing. It’s stupid. Ridiculous.

“You ‘fraid?” Theodore chides, prodding at her paranoid eyes.

“Afraid _you’ll_ ask,” she hisses back. I’m toggling the _Prophet_ between my hands when Artemis Grey saunters behind me. Her thrush of dark hair waves as it moves toward a set of desks, joining her sister. _There’s always her._ No. She’s two years my senior, a sixth-year. I’d be laughed out if I tried. 

Across the room, feet propped on two chairs like she’s tanning in Aruba, is Odessa. A year below me. Could do that. The Grey sisters wear the same hair, thick and warm brown, but neither Odessa’s nor Artemis’ can rival Vera’s. Bloody hell, that girl has hair. To her waist, in loose, rare curls. It's a bloody weapon, or a shield, to keep a distance between you and her. And it follows her like a golden shadow, clean and envious. Other girls _do_ envy Guinevere Grey’s hair. She’s got plenty to envy, I s’pose. As a child, people ogled at her, stopping her at every turn. “That’s a Grey,” they’d say, “and the prettiest one, at that.”

The memories ruffle in my head. _Not now_. But I can’t stop them. And sometimes, I don’t want to stop them. There she is, plain before me, in her beige frock and leather shoes caked in a thin veil of dirt, a ribbon pulling a thread of golden hair to the side over those deep, fatally blue eyes. Her hair floats in all directions. A mess. She’s nine again—maybe ten. Her mother is scolding her for getting into the garden. Her other sisters watch on, promising they won’t do what Vera does. _Trouble_. She was always in trouble. Still is.

 _Stop it._

I stare across the Slytherin common room, where the Grey sisters are grouped now, without Vera. It’s strange to see them without her, as if she never existed. They strike me as a mirror of the family painting dangling over their hearth. Phineas Grey, devilishly handsome, with kind eyes and peppered grey hair, looms over his pointed, pale wife. Even her age doesn’t hide how stunning she once was. Her eyes are less kind than his. Troubling. Always scared me as a kid. Girls are spread around them. Artemis, taller, plain. Obedient face. She’s got her mother’s upturned nose. Then there’s Odessa to her right, sitting soldierly on the floor. She’s pretty and dark, but overshadowed by the other two. The youngest, Sandrine, is the only one half-broken into a smile across her childish face. Then Vera. Guinevere. She looks angry. _Mean._ Her features are steep and wild. Her hair is askew, eyebrows long and dark, the golden hair obscuring part of her warm cheeks and narrow, delicate face. The artist did well, capturing her fire and diabolical mind all at once. I’ve seen the painting many times. It lives in my mind the same way Vera does. Little Vera. The Vera of my childhood. And, lately, grown Vera. Charming, brutal... beautiful Vera.

_No. Fuck._

The Greys are one of the few families my parents like. My mother adores Maura Grey, relies on her. I don’t understand. We’re the wealthiest families in Wiltshire. It should warrant competition — maybe bad blood. Instead, they’re thick as thieves, and I was forced into a life of Christmases with squawking, fighting, battering girls. 

It’s not awful, though sometimes I want to suddenly go deaf. It’s less lonely at Astrum Palace, despite the screams and groveling females. They’re wild. But still, I never had a parent look at me the way Phineas Grey looks at his daughters...

I hear their voices again in my memory as I sit there, head peeled back, watching them whisper to one another in the common room. But my mind is suddenly in the garden at Astrum Palace. D _ammit, not now._ It’s summer, six years ago. Vera is taking off her long socks to put her toes in the water of the pond at the edge of their sixty acres. Fiercely punishable. Socks must stay on.

“What’re you scared of?” she laughs darkly. I’m afraid of being responsible. Of getting hit.

“I’m not scared.” Lie.

“Scared it’s too cold? Or you can’t swim?”

“I’m not scared,” I say again. Another lie. Vera’s smile is wicked.

“Well, you’re no fun,” she eggs. I huff a breath. “I won’t marry you if you’re no fun.”

“What?” I say. My nine year old brain stutters on the sentence. She peers back with a full, moony face, confident.

“I won’t marry you.” She meant it. My heartbeat stammers, but it’s too young to understand why. “I’m going to marry you, Draco. Don’t you know already? We’re betrothed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that we’re in love but we don’t know it.”

“No, we’re not,” I insist, disgusted. Her dirty hands and chaotic hair flounce around her, unbothered by the trouble she’ll be in. 

“Yes we are,” she decides, unfazed. “We most certainly are betrothed. I read about it in a book. I’ve planned it, too. We’ll get married here, after school. But not if you’re no fun.”

I swallow. I’m starting to believe her. The fierce delivery convinces me. Perhaps we are getting married. Then I’m back in the common room, Fourth Year student with a special, saturated _loathing_ burning in my chest for the same girl who's smiling wildly in my memories. _Hah_. If the Vera of my childhood could only hear the same memory I do.

My brain returns me to the common room, my eyes gliding over toward the Grey sisters, lounged effortlessly across a spread of tables. They bask like Greek goddesses, wearing stone expressions, causing boys (and girls) to turn. I’m glad, for a brief moment, that I know them so well. That I’m not scared of them the way I used to be. And then I’m picturing Vera again, the alpha sister, sitting among them. I wish she was here. I’ve wished, from the moment she was called to Gryffindor, that she was here instead. Perhaps, if she was here, she wouldn’t be friends with Potter. Conceited. Arrogant. And those friends of his, annoying as hell. Vera included. Perhaps I wouldn’t hate her like I do now. “Betrothed.” _Ha_. Whatever Vera and I are now—enemies, rivals, antagonists—it’s the opposite of what we were in the pond that day, as children. I chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?” Pansy pipes up. I wish she’d stop watching me like an eagle. 

“Damned Yule Ball,” I say quickly. “I’m not going.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Theodore says with the whisper of a grimace. He doesn’t realize how serious I am. “You can’t miss it.”

“Waste of an evening,” I chide. Everyone goes quiet.

“Maybe I’ll ask Artemis,” Theodore says, juggling a Remembrall and an apple. “Think the Greys would like that?” A devilish grin breaks across his face.

“Fat chance. You’ll be laughed out. Surprised she hasn’t been asked yet.” Blaise raises his brows, letting his eyes wander to where they sit, taking up half the room. 

“Won’t be long now,” Pansy sneers with the highest degree of jealousy. “Vera’s already been snatched.”

“Damn,” Theodore says, smiling brokenly. “She was my second choice.”

I roll my eyes. 

“Who’s got her?” Blaise asks the question so I don’t. But I already know the answer. My body tenses.

“Diggory.” Pansy says it with disgust. Envy. The other boys exhale a laugh. They’ve been moving everywhere together, latched at the hip. Typical. The big, popular triwizard champion. Fucking typical Vera. Something big and shiny for her to toggle around.

“Bloody hell, that’s rich,” Theodore gasps. “Think Potter’s crying ‘bout it?”

“Potter and Vera are just friends,” Nora Blithe finally says. I chuckle.

“Right." I speak before my brain can forms the words. "You think Potter can sit in two feet of her all these years and not have a thing for her? Probably drives him mad, don’t you think?” I’m amused by how much this makes my blood boil. Vera. Cedric. “Bet you anything it hurts like hell. Wonder if Diggory planned it that way. No jab like stealing someone out from under him. Rich, indeed.”

I've said too much. Everyone goes quiet. Pansy chuckles darkly and reaches playfully into Theodore's hands, prying the apple from his fingers and taking a slow, wet bite.

_~*~_

_ **VERA:** _

Harry won’t speak to me. At least not directly. His eyes skitter in other directions, but mine are clutching him, furious. We’re moving down the hall again after dinner, trying to think up worthwhile charms to ward off a dragon. Hermione’s run off to the library, leaving us solo. I’m itching to help, but Harry’s pretending I’m nonexistent. His body shifts against mine, back facing me. A few students slip past.

“Is there a sleeping draft?” I ask stupidly. I'm out of ideas, but I’m testing him. Gauging his reaction. “Might be good.”

“No,” Harry says coldly.

“Inadvertent death curse?” Cut that dragon to bits.

“No,” Harry says again.

“Can you have your broom?”

Harry’s eyes glisten in thought for a moment, then steepen again. “Why don’t you ask Cedric?”

 _That’s it._ I step in front of him, cutting off his stride. 

“Dammit, can’t you get over it already? What’s wrong with you?” I’m being mean. Careful. Harry tries to shoulder past me.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. No.

“No. You’re not going anywhere until we have it out.”

I’m in front of him again, and he’s bothered, flexing his jaw. It’s good we’re alone in this corridor.

“Fine.” He’s gritting his teeth. “You want to talk about it? You’ve decided to run off with Cedric at the perfect time, haven’t you? Call yourself my friend and then side with him.”

“I’m not _siding_ with anybody,” I retaliate. “You think I want you to lose? No. I don’t give a damn about this competition. You know this was happening before.”  
Harry’s eyes rifle through the World Cup. I almost see Cedric and I swimming in his thoughts, joking together under the tent. I almost feel the urgent, anxious terror ripple through him when he realizes we’re flirting. Enjoying it. I blink it away.

“This isn’t about Cedric,” I mutter. “It’s something else. Just say it.”

“No.”  
Now it’s in the open air, a huge, colossal elephant beside us. He _does_ have feelings for me. Long, harbored feelings. We’re both unmoving, feet nailed to the floor. I have a solution, but it’s ridiculous.

“You have to say it,” I tell him. “Just say it once and we’ll never think of it again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says angrily. “No.”

My pride stings. Then it’s back in full force.

“Fine,” I chide, “don’t say anything. But you stop it with this attitude, then, unless you want to lose me forever.”

I can feel Harry’s body react, stung by the threat. But he doesn’t have a chance to respond before a light blinds the both of us, followed by a loud shudder and sheepish giggle. We turn, following the noise. There she is — satiny pink pantsuit as vibrant as a circus clown, glinting at us behind catlike spectacles, wiry blonde hair scattered around her lacquered face. She strides toward us, tiny blue heels clapping on the stone, nose and mouth upturned. 

“What do we have here?” she begs to know, but the quill and notepad beside her are already busy. “A Triwizard Champion, devastated by his competitor’s girl? Or, perhaps, dear, we have a woman tied between two—”

“We have two friends and a snake,” I say. There’s no stopping it. Rita’s eyes boggle, smiling. _Great_. This candor excites her. “Get out of here, Rita. Leave us alone.”

“A rather thrilling notion, it is. Star-crossed between heroes. You certainly have a type, Miss Grey.”

Of course she knows me. My father is Head of Treasury at the Ministry, akin to photo ops. Besides, Skeeter is a former classmate of my mother’s. She’s watched me grow, pried at my father about us, even written a tantalizing piece when I was called to Gryffindor after a heritage of Slytherins. It was not taken kindly by my parents, who crave privacy.

“Let’s go,” Harry whispers, gripping my lapel and thrusting me the other direction. The camera shudders again. _Dammit_. I stop, spinning to face her as she whispers to her notepad.

“You idiot woman!” I shout. “If there’s a single word of this in the _Prophet_ ….” She’s smiling, foreseeing the direction I’m headed. “You’ll regret it. You know that.”  
Rita winks girlishly. Almost… tauntingly. “Darling. There _will_ be.”

That’s it. Without thinking, I spit a curse and it rips through the air, sending Rita backwards. She’s tossed twenty feet back, maybe, a mess on the floor. The commotion causes others to turn the corner. Students see me, guilty as ever, wand up. Harry’s suddenly next to me, holding a fistful of my robes.

“Bloody hell, Vera.”

I’m frozen again as Skeeter stumbles to her feet, hands patting the ground for her spectacles. Flustered, she mutters something, and the glasses jump into her free hand. Once they’re on, she’s looking for me — a new kind of anger in her eyes.

“You foul girl!” she shouts. It’s too late. A dark-clad figure has turned the corner, moving swiftly in my direction. Snape.

I’m done for. He flushes past a staggering Skeeter, leveling himself with Harry and I. His eyes jostle between the two of us. Her shoes are clapping behind him, rushing toward us.

“It was her, that _insolent_ Grey girl.” 

“Miss Grey,” Snape drawls. “Potter. My office. Immediately.”

“He had nothing to do with it, sir—”

“Both of you. Now.”

I turn to go, unwilling to feel Rita’s spit on my face. She continues shrilling behind him.

“No _apology!_? Letting your students get away with _murder_ in these halls! Disgraceful! Mark my words, Severus—”

I join Harry, storming toward the dungeons. As we move past other students, who’ve gathered, rumors hot on their lips, I keep my head level. _Don’t be upset_. That’ll make the rumors worse. No. I’ll be the hero here. As we turn the corner, I exhale.

“I’m sorry,” I say to him, earnest. “I won’t let you get in trouble—”

“Worth it,” he says, a rare grin breaking across his face. Good.

Harry and I haven’t resolved anything, but it feels like we have — a mutual hatred for a lopsided reporter solves everything.


	4. Chapter 4

“Miss Grey, this council has been called to determine if you should be, _ahem,_ expelled from Hogwarts for performing a Disarming Curse that posed a significant threat to Miss Rita Skeeter.”

A man with a bowler hat and cold eyes moves his mouth tightly, eyes boring into my soul. Barty Crouch. I don’t react to him. I won't. To his right, Snape’s cold leer tells me which way he sways. McGonagall, adjacent to them both, looks hauntingly at me. She’s disappointed. I already got an earful of it. “Defending” me, she says. “Always defending.” Truthfully, how much defense can I expect before they’re tired of it?

The other professors — unsurprised to see me here — look like their decision has been made. But, of course, my side of the story is good. It’s _fair._ They understand it.

“She was _harassing_ me. And Potter. It was… a reaction.”

“Harassing,” Snape crooned. “Did she… _attack_ you?”

“Yes, with her damn quill.”

“Miss Grey, that is not a proper reason for defense,” McGonagall had chirped. “A Disarming Curse. Was her wand out?”

“Two very different attacks,” I’d insisted, nodding, “but she was egging me on — I swear.”

Then _he_ stepped forward. Lucius Malfoy. Meddling in Hogwarts business. It’s not a surprise to see him, necessarily, but the corners of his tight, furious lips peels over the glaring teeth, making my arms warm — I want to sock him. Keeping a slimy hand on the Triwizard Tournament. He _should_ be a defending me, a family friend. But if the past is any telling of today, he's not here to see me succeed.

“Miss Skeeter is a woman of repute,” Malfoy hisses, almost a whisper. “Surely she wouldn’t hurt a fly. And now look — she’s been almost _killed_ by a moment of… weakness. This sort of danger can’t exist among… students.”

“You’re one to talk,” I shout angrily. “I’ve watched you damn near _stab_ your own—”

“Miss Grey,” McGonagall cuts me off. I’m grateful for it. Lucius is seething, eyes darting between Ministry members who mumble to one another, narrowing their gaze at me. His look could kill.

Things are bad. By knocking Skeeter sideways, I’ve just created a bigger, worse story for myself. After Snape had pulled Harry and I away those few days ago, rumors began rippling through the corridors.

_“Attacked a reporter! She’s done for.”_

_“Can’t believe she’ll be expelled.”_

_“Mum is going to kill her.”_

Artemis and Odessa look at me the way they always do — utter trouble. 

Days later, I wound up in Dumbledore’s office solo, having begged to free Harry from the flames. I hardly notice the odd-shaped objects and trinkets littering the room, since the desk area was filled with professors and Ministry officials (and Malfoy), eyes daggering me. 

“I very much enjoy teaching Miss Grey,” Flitwick says warmly. My heart thumps. “Never one to be _too_ out of control. I know one or two good witches and wizards who have that bite of rage in them. I do. Can’t be the worst thing to happen in these halls, hm, Severus?”

“Surely this type of behavior is not _ignored_ at this great school,” Crouch says. I stifle the course of adrenaline that rips down my hands. I could throw a punch. “Justice is not forgotten here, hm?”

“Certainly not, Barty,” Mad Eye steps forward, almost unwillingly, “but we don’t just go sending _any_ kid to Azkaban.”

Barty swallows, dipping out of Mad Eye’s shadow. “This is not that serious, Alastair. Azkaban is not on the line.”

“Aye. But denying an education for a wee bit of anger? Let’s not forget these are _children._ ”

Crouch looks at me as if he doesn’t believe I’m really a _child._

“And children of Ministry officials,” Crouch says to no one in particular. “We will leave the decision to the headmaster.”

_Hallelujah._

“Dismissed, then.” McGonagall stands and strides in my direction as the other professors shudder away. _Another lecture._ I stand, gathering my books, pretending to seem upset, somber — but I could be throwing hands. 

“Now, that’s all but _that._ ” McGonagall smiles weakly. “Don’t be slowing down on your studies. I’m certain Professor Dumbledore won’t be sending you home.”

_Might be better if he did._

I don’t have time to respond. Before I can edge around her, Lucius Malfoy is striding toward me, a flicker of a grimace on his pointed face. McGonagall ducks away. I want to have the first word.

“Disappointed, are you?” I say darkly. “Didn’t get to escort me home?”

Lucius’ stare could turn a house elf to stone. “I’ll get to be the first to inform your parents about what you’ve done.”

“Very big of you. And I’ll be the first to tell them how you tried to get me expelled.”

He _tsk’s_ with a satisfied grimace. “Now, now, don’t underestimate your father. He is a man of good judgment. Imagine how devastating, really, for him… to see his daughter fall so… _far_.” 

_Hah._

“He’ll forgive me,” I remind him. “It’s you — so _utterly_ replaceable. You’ll be the one to get the cut.”

His eyes thin, pressuring me. I don’t waste another moment. I stomp out the doors and to the foot of the east wing.

Lucius. _Ugh._ That greasy blonde hair and snake-eyed cane simmers in my head. I see Draco next to him. Draco, _cowering_ behind him. I can’t believe I ever felt bad for Draco as a kid — gaunt, ghastly eyes when he’d see his father, wet with tears. Now Draco is his doppelganger… just as cruel and cold. I shudder to think of the pair of them. 

As I turn down from Dumbledore’s office, I spot Cedric peering in the corridor. His mouth hangs open, waiting to react. He straightens at the sight of me. It’s endearing. He’s worried. I speed up without thinking, and shoot him one knowing smile. He eases. We step in sync toward the Great Hall.

“All that for nothing?” he asks.

“They’ll leave it to Dumbledore. Month of detention, maybe. Cleaning broom cupboards.”

He smirks, moving with confidence. “Can’t imagine how they’d pull off _expelling_ you for that.”

 _That._ Sending a _Prophet_ reporter spiraling through the halls.

“Are the rumors bad?” I ask. I don’t want to know. Cedric smirks.

“No. Rather good, actually. A bit heroic. Nobody likes that woman.” He pauses, stumbling as a gaggle of third-years pass, making eyes at us. “Least of all _me._ ” Of course. She’s harassed Cedric, too. But now I have to tell him.

“Ced, listen.” _No, I don’t want to do this._ “I was trying to get her off of Harry.”

“I know.” His voice drags low and long, understanding me. “Should I expect to see a picture of you two snogging in the paper? Heard a rumor about that.”

 _Shit_. “No. No. But she’ll spin it that way.”

He isn’t bothered. _How is he not bothered?_ We float toward the Great Hall, our feet moving in sync, the broken half-smile filling his face. When the halls go quiet, he pauses. Frozen.

“You okay?” I ask, turning to face him. _Now it’s happening. He’s done with me._

He’s still got that coy, knowing smile. His amber irises and filled with the candlelight from these warm, sleepy in these halls. “It’s alright, you know. You and Potter. You’re friends.”

“Hm.”

He looks me up and down, trying to find a place to rest his gaze. “If you tell me that’s it, I’ll believe you. Can’t be easy, I expect, between the two of us. Him and me.”

“It’s not like that with him. He’s _just_ my friend.”

“I’m not dead, though.” Cedric’s eyebrows rise and fall. Disbelief. “I see him when he’s with you. With _us._ He’s got a thing for you.”

“Maybe,” I say, unconfident. “But I don’t feel that way about him. Believe me.”

Cedric is trying to decide if he does. He steps into me, filling the space around me. His lips mock me from above, forcing my head to tilt back. I drop, my body coming in contact with the stone wall. A chill shudders up my calves from where it touches. He hovers a head above mine, our breath growing closer, mingling. His damn _eyes._ Liquid gold. The flames of the candles dance in his irises. I’m sad every time he blinks, hiding those perfect, warm eyes from me.

“I do,” he whispers. Then our lips touch. His body presses into me, the fabric of our uniforms molding together, rustling. I only hear Cedric’s breath in my ear, mingled with his low voice. “I believe you, Vera.”

I kiss him back with energy, enthusiasm. I’m here, entirely, feeling his hands wander, tempted to tug away at the fabric of my blouse—sweater. The flutter of shoes in the corridor forces Cedric to lurch out of our kiss, but I’m quick. I twist his striped tie in my free hand and pull him back into me, kissing again. The unlucky person who turns the corner stops, sees us, then skitters off in the other direction. _Hm._

Cedric breaks away, shaking his head — but all I see are his wide, wet lips, broken into an unwilling grin.

I smile. He enjoys this chaos. For as clean cut and particular as he is, he can’t resist me. We melt into each other again.

~*~  
  
  


_ **DRACO:** _

“ _The Triwizard Temptress: A Girl After the Glory._ Damn, this is going to be good.”

I’d give my arm to make Pansy disappear usually, but right now — I want to hear how the _Prophet_ has painted the story. All I’ve heard are rumors. And my _father._

“ _Miss Guinevere Grey, third-born daughter of Ministry Treasury Secretary, Phineas D. Grey, is causing a stir at Hogwarts School among Triwizard Champions. The fourth-year dame —_ hmmph — _is frequently spotted and noted by students to be in cahoots with Hufflepuff hero and Hogwarts favorite, Mr. Cedric Diggory. However, the fairytale has a rather frightening twist: Miss Grey has now been exposed in a love triangle with unlikely champion and famed child wizard, Mr. Harry Potter.”_ Pansy’s beady eyes rummage the story, looking for the line she’s been _itching_ to discuss. “ _Upon being confronted in close proximity to Mr. Potter, Miss Grey exhibited a chaotic bout of violence, injuring Daily Prophet’s own award-winning journalist, Rita Skeeter. This shocking display of behavior, a result of being caught in her strange cobweb of triwizard romance, is being considered by Hogwarts officials who anticipate Miss Grey’s expulsion. Sadly, the Triwizard Temptress may soon be saying goodbye to both of her thrill-seeking lovers._ Did you hear that?! Outstanding. Beautifully written, Rita.”

I’ve heard the story from every direction today. Nobody can keep it off their tongue. _Triwizard Temptress._ Ridiculous. Vera’s a stone cold mix of selfish and reckless. She couldn’t possibly be stringing herself up in this… _cobweb_ of lovers. Bloody hell. I hate it.

“Serves her right to get expelled. Bloody stupid, what she did.” Pansy is determined to hate her. It’s energizing. And she’s not the only one. The Grey sisters have been saving face, rolling their eyes, dragging their sister — the same way they always have. 

“So out of character,” Artemis hisses, though she doesn’t _really_ feel that way. “Violent. Something’s wrong with her.”

“Mum and dad are going to kill her,” is all Odessa can muster. 

_Ha._ Those girls wouldn't know a threat if it slapped them in the face. Phineas Grey, as charmless as he is, would never... _hurt_ them.I shudder off my own cold memories, and think of Vera again. The image I saw in the _Prophet_ lives in my head. Vera, jolting toward Skeeter. Potter, his hands gripping her robes, yanking her back. Touching her. _Dammit._ The image plays over in my head. _Stop._

Of course Potter has a thing for her. How could he not? That pretty head of hair, her dollish face.She's got the devil's fucking eyes.

"Do you think they'll do it? Expel her?" The _Prophet_ validates Pansy's jealousy. She's not disgusted. It's all envy. Am I the only one who can see it?

"Hope so," Goyle mutters.

"No way," Theo laughs, smirking. "She hardly knocked her off. Skeeter's a bit prude, but kids have done _worse_. Think of the Weasleys."

"But a _reporter_ ," Blaise says, eyebrows tilted up. "Big chatter. Could be a bad look for the school if they don't."

"She'll get off with a warning," Nora Blithe says. I nod in agreement. Inside, I'm torn, secretly hoping she doesn't go — but silently wishing she would. I can't bear her. Sharpest damn tongue in this school. It's stupid that Potter gets her, and foolish of her to be fraternizing with blood traitors and mudbloods like she does.

"A _warning,"_ Pansy hisses. "Dammit, Nora, I hope you're wrong."

"Only one person might know more than we do," Theo says. He's talking about me. I feel everyone's heads whip around. _Of course._ I spoke with my father this afternoon, in the hall. A cold, friendless visit. As I strode to the Great Hall for supper earlier, I watched the throng of Ministry officials leaving Dumbeldore's office. My father was there. Unsurprising. I knew he'd appear under the guise of "caring parent", but he's mostly rumor hunting — getting whispers, funneling it back to his _friends._

Friends. Not friends. They're a bad lot, the people who come around. Who talk about _him._ Voldemort.

In the hall earlier, as my father appeared behind the other eagle-eyed Ministry prudes, I jerked my head sideways in a _bad_ attempt to keep him from seeing me. It never works.

He strode my way, the tip of his cane peering at me from the folds of his coat like an old friend.

"Father," I'd said, nodding for my friends to go on to the Great Hall. They'd slipped away. Pansy had cast one last look at him, afraid. "Here on business?"

"An interesting kind," he'd told me, stern. "I've come to expel Guinevere Grey."

I'd swallowed, fear rippling through my chest. In that single moment, I didn't want her to go. But the feeling whiplashed in my body, changing course every minute. "Are they sending her home?"

"They _ought_ to," he told me, jaw set. "Fools. Crouch has turned it over to Dumbledore. That man is weak in the knees. If he doesn't do it, I'll press harder."

_Don't._

"Stupid girl," he continued. "A shame on her family. It's best she hide out, away from mudbloods. _Disgracing_ Phineas and Maura." He wanted to look upset, but this thrilled him. _The Greys. Failing._ My father envied Phineas Grey. Esteemed Ministry job. A warm, close group of respectful friends. Money. Cheerfulness. Although, any kind of _joy_ left a bad taste in my father's mouth.

"I've given them a piece of my mind," my father continued, proud. "But I fear Dumbledore will put nothing to action. Man has a foolish blind spot for Potter and his friends. Guinevere has, as you know, always been on the _lookout_ for trouble. Ridiculous girl."

_If you even knew._

"Best you say your goodbyes to her," he told me, grimacing. I huffed a sarcastic laugh. "She'll be gone before the weekend, if I have any say."

"More like good riddance," I said back.

This pleased him. Barty Crouch brushed by. My father turned, squeezing my shoulder, and then departed without turning back. I went to dinner as if I'd never seen him. As soon as he broke away and out of sight, my body relaxed.

_**“Draco?”** _

Pansy’s soprano voice yanks me back to the present. _Shit._ I don’t want to be here.

“They held a council to expel her,” I tell them. The details wane in my head. “Turned it over to Dumbledore. She’ll be gone before the weekend.”

Pansy likes this news. Blaise isn’t sure. 

“Dumbledore wouldn’t send a student out,” Nora says. She’s so unnecessarily kind. It bothers me, the same way Pansy’s jealous, cryptic candor does. 

“She’ll be gone if my father has anything to do with it,” I tell them. 

“Good,” Pansy snarls, her nose wrinkling. “Just one less _threat_ to us.”

 _Right._ Vera isn’t threatening. Am I the only one who feels this?

“Why does your father want her out? Thought your father was close to the Greys. Looks a bit bad, doesn't it?” 

Blaise is brave to ask this. Everyone watches me, anticipating an enraged reply.

“He puts money into this school. He wants to see it run to perfection. She’s a nightmare. Always has been. He thinks it’s best she’s… away from here.”

They don’t know the truth. There’s something _coming._ Something big. My father can falsify his admiration for the Greys all he wants, but somewhere inside, he’s trying to protect Vera. Or at least the Greys. Get her away from the Mudbloods. Undo her sympathy.

Blaise isn’t satisfied by this answer, but it works for Pansy. She _hurrumphs_ again and continues reading the _Prophet._ Everyone else can go on living. But I can’t. A memory is starting to refill my head. _No. Not now._ It’s too late. She’s there again, that cheery blonde hair, a set of blunt bangs over her eyebrows. Vera. I hate this. I hate how the past taunts me. She’s following me with a green garden snake. It’s twined in her dirty fingers, squirming as she grips it. I’m screaming for her mum. 

“You ‘fraid, Draco?” her light voice calls after me as I bolt behind a hedge. “Scared of an itty bitty snake? They _don’t bite._ Come see. Look.”

She dangles a finger in front of the snake’s intrepid head. It bobs then _lunges_ forward, hunkering its tiny teeth into her hand. She shrieks and drops it. It doesn’t fall. Its teeth are deep in her finger. 

I shake the memory off, among other things.

  
  


~*~

She enters the Great Hall in a frenzy. I don’t always notice her. My head is usually down, or circled between Crabbe and Goyle. But I see her today, hair swept into a low, loose bun with some strands dancing in her face. She’s tilted slightly forward as she walks, aggressive, graceful. Her eyes are furrowed, two concerned lines running along her forehead. 

I don’t usually notice her. But today I do, because she’s searching. For me.

When her eyes grip me, she slams her book down at the Gryffindor table and makes a beeline. A few heads turn. She’s been doing a lot of that lately — making people stare.

_Fuck._

“You.”

Her finger is aimed at me. Everyone near us stops breathing.

“What do you want?” I say to her. She’s unfazed by my rudeness. She points at me, and for the first time in awhile, I feel a flare of warmth surge through my chest. I stifle a cough as it rockets through my lungs.

“You _liar._ Starting rumors, are you? Telling everyone that I’m getting expelled.”

I enjoy watching her rage. It suits her. Red, warm face. She’s been practicing this confrontation. I smile back. “Friday morning, is it? I bet you’ve got… _hm…_ three hours before you’re on the train home.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you git.”

Pansy stands. _Sit down._ Vera is petite, but her wiry arms could crush Pansy in a single blow. Vera, on the other hand, isn’t distracted by Pansy trying to level up to her. Her eyes are on me — cutting me to bits. I’m relishing in it, eating up her anger. _Damn_ , she looks good. 

“People are telling me that Lucius Malfoy’s got some master plan to get me out of this school,” she says. I feel the bite now. My father’s name triggers an unwanted reaction _._ “What are you _telling_ them, you liar?”

“Stay back, Grey,” Pansy hisses. “Don’t _touch_ any of us. You’re dangerous.” Vera rolls her eyes, stepping over Pansy’s outstretched leg.

“Sit down, you idiot,” she chides. Pansy’s eyes skitter to me, but I won’t protect her. I don’t _want_ to. I wish Vera would slap her silly. But she knows she can’t. _One wrong move, and she’s out._ “ Might want to share the news with your father. I’m not going _anywhere_. It’s already been decided.”

She smiles as she says it. I can pretend to be disappointed by this news. Some part of me doesn’t want Vera to go. Some part of me is _glad_ my father’s failed. _No. She should be gone from here. It’s better for her… away from the mudbloods. Away from the mudbloods… before it all happens._

It’s fun to see her rage. Really, it is. 

“Doesn’t take much, does it?” I say, glimmering. “Doesn’t take much to get Guinevere Grey in trouble.”

“Don’t call me that,” she says through her teeth. I’m glad the wood table stands between us. 

“You’re not out yet, but you will be soon,” I warn her. 

“You’re an ass, Malfoy,” she hisses under her breath. The comment stings, but I don’t have time to think about it. Suddenly, I’m mourning her as she turns and storms away, out of our circle, her small, furious frame far less graceful with rage. _Dammit._

“What’s got you wound up?” Artemis Grey asks, moving past her sister. Vera turns back, looking in our direction.

“Why don’t you ask Malfoy?” 

Artemis rolls her eyes. When she does, I see the faint, familiar lines of Vera’s face in hers. My eyes follow Vera, who struts furiously to the Gryffindor table and sinks like a dancer into her spot, facing us. She’s looking straight at Harry, but her eyes dart over his head, into our group, mad. That _rage._ I hate how well it suits her. The blood is leaving her face, returning to its warm, pale pallor. 

Artemis’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“Think you can get rid of her that easy?” She’s talking to me. I blink back.

“ _I’ve_ done nothing,” I insist. Artemis huffs a laugh and strides away.


	5. Chapter 5

“Where are we going?” I ask Cedric. He’s moving confidently toward the Black Lake. It’s cold. The sweater tugs at my neck, hair falling around my woolly sweater, but my breath swirls around me. My nose is pink and frozen. Cedric can't be stopped.

“Fresh air,” he tells me in an even voice, distracted. “Had to get you out before you kill him.”

 _Malfoy_. Wise of him. For whatever reason, I can forgive everyone for spurring on rumors — but him. Draco. Acting like he has authority, the final say. Stupid, dark face whenever we're in the same room. Telling everyone how daddy will kick me out. It wakes up a new kind of anger. Cedric’s listened to me seethe about him enough. He’s sick of it. But it's old news now.

The first task is over. Harry and Cedric both narrowly survived a dragon. Frost hovers in tufts along the lake, the trees are barren, and little patches of snow are packed in the shadows. The Black Lake is partly frozen, but the shoreline is a thin sheet of ice. 

I'm grateful my unintentional moment of fame is mostly over. I got a month’s detention of alphabetizing new potions for Snape. It was a light punishment. He tried to make it harder. But I’m glad the conversation has turned from Triwizard Temptress to Heroic Hufflepuff and Harry Potter. They’re at the center. Now Cedric and I only see each other on long evening walks, before the sun sets. In between, Cedric's got N.E.W.T.'s and late trainings with Flitwick.

But my sisters haven't forgotten.

Just hours ago, Odessa fluttered past me in the Great Hall, her eyes bulging. “You haven’t opened it yet?”

In my hand was a letter in the familiar beige paper. There are four letters from my parents. Raging, I imagine. Unopened. They arrive by Luxe, our tawny owl, on various days. I don’t even read them.

“No,” I told Odessa. “I don’t care to hear what they have to say.”

She had rolled her eyes. “Better respond before they send a Howler.”

No. They’re too dignified for that. I’m delaying the inevitable. _Ugh_. 

I shake off the thought and suck in a wet, cold breath. It's nice to be away from my sisters' prying eyes, and Harry's stifled rage, and Hermione's kind questions. It's nice to be here at twilight, with Cedric. I hear a group of rough voices to our right. As we turn the corner of the lake, a striking group of Durmstrang boys saunter past us. They stare at me with their dark, bulbous eyes. I recognize Krum.

“Viktor,” Cedric says appropriately. Such a gentleman. 

He nods and walks past. A few of them slow, staring me up and down. I don't smile back. Once they’re out of earshot, Cedric sighs angrily. We move downstream, where a thrush of trees have toppled over and dip their long branches into the lake. Cedric stops here, staring out across the water.

“I know… you don’t want to tell me,” I start. My curiosity is splitting wide open. “But… have you figured it out yet? The next task?”

Cedric breathes out, his breath frosting the air. “Who said I don’t want to tell you?” _Is he... annoyed?_

I cock my head. “Well, I’d never claw it out of you. You know I’ve got two of you to—”

“I know.” He's sharp. _So he is annoyed_. I stop breathing. After a long silence, he sighs. “I haven’t figured it out yet."

"What's wrong?" My voice steepens with concern. Cedric shakes his head once. "Tell me."

"Dammit, Vera, that way they look at you—” His eyes follow the Durmstrangs, now far down the beach.

“What?” I’m lost.

“The way they all look at you.”

 _Why does this matter_? I narrow my eyes, begging to understand.

“Cedric, what the hell are you talking about?”

He debates whether or not he should go on, but it’s too late.

“Those Durmstrangs,” he says, quieter, keeping it from the birds. “Did you see them? They stare at you like they’re hungry. They all do it. All these boys.”

I chuckle softly. Cedric’s pained, though. I stifle the laughter. 

“Oh,” I say. “I—I mean... I’m fairly certain they’re scared of me. Scared I’ll send them flying across the hall. Break their necks.”

“Maybe.” He warms slightly, picturing Skeeter sailing in the air. I sense there’s more. His eyes drop again. “That’s not it. Those brutes aren't scared of anything." He thinks for a moment before exhaling hard. "Not the first do it, though, are they? Finnegan's been obsessed since first year. Potter, maybe longer—"

"Obsessed is too much," I chide. He huffs and continues.

"—All the Durmstrangs. Lucas Brimley. Terry. Even Malfoy—”

“Malfoy! Now you sound delirious.” 

He’s upset. “Am I wrong?”

 _He’s not_. Seamus has always crouched in my shadow, hoping, blushing. Harry may have feelings, but he’s smart enough to keep them quiet. And Malfoy. I roll my eyes.

“No,” I say. It's biting. “That’s a flattering number, but it’s wrong. Brimley's got someone, and Harry's _harmless,_ Ced. And Malfoy couldn't hate me more.”

Cedric shakes his head, smiling out at the water, entertained by the thought. The image triples in my mind, coming to life. I nearly scream at the thought — _Malfoy_. 

Cedric clears his throat. “It's a thin line, Vera.”

I swallow. "What's a thin line?"

"Hate... and love." He shakes his head, stepping closer to me, hunching his shoulders forward. "I've said too much," he realizes.

I nod, agreeing, stepping away from him. Seeing my slip away, he steps closer, letting his gloved hand snake out of his robes and find mine.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric says, shaking his head. “I'm heated. Hard to relax when I hardly see you. And when I do see you, you’re in the middle of all of them — being stared at, admired… adored.”

Blood swells in my cheeks, even in the cold. I stare away. I hate this. I don’t know how to react.

“You're going mad,” I tell him, edged with humor. He eases. Another cloud of breath swirls between us.

“I don’t think you realize how right I am, though,” he says, skeptical. Gosh, why can’t we leave this conversation alone? I’m blushing and bothered, but I let him toy with my hand. He brings it to his lips, warming it in his breath. “Jealous,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

 _Dammit_. I’m not in the mood anymore. I’m not in the mood to sit here, sniffing his air, being daggered for doing nothing at all. Cedric’s aware. He senses this. But before he can change the subject, I cock my head. I can't let go of it yet.

“Malfoy?” I ask, on the brink of a laugh. “That sounds like poor judgment.”

He chuckles, raising his brows. “Like I said. Thin line. Wouldn't be shocked if he — fancied you.” It bothers him to say it.

“Impossible,” I retaliate. “I called him an ass just yesterday.”

Cedric stiffens, dropping my hand. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. “Why?”

“He was being an ass.”

Cedric’s brows steep inwards. “Because of his dad? The expulsion?"

“It's not just his slimy father, _he's_ in on it,” I say, exhausted. “The Malfoys are out to get me expelled. You think someone who fancies me would do that? Seems a bit drastic for a crush.”

Thankfully, Cedric agrees. He sighs, shaking off another deep thought, and grabs my hand. This time I let him have it.

As we walk, the damp leaves shuffling under our feet, he tilts his head, wondering. “Not Malfoy, then. I always thought he might, though. Stares at you so… aggressively.”

“It’s hate,” I remind him, but his earlier words start toggling in my brain. _Fine line, Vera. It's a fine line._

“I’m just glad you’re here with me,” he tells me, repentant. It flushes my brain clear. “But I want to know, Vera. I like you. A good deal more than… any of _they_ do. I think.” He’s disguising his nerves with a smile. I look into his eyes. It seems like the right thing to do. “I think I’d feel better if… you were mine. Officially.”

 _What_?

My heartbeat stammers in my ears. Cedric is quiet for a moment, then breathes again.

“I _do_ like you,” he says again, tinged with fear. “Seems a waste not to go on calling it what it is.”

"A _waste,_ " I echo, barely a whisper. He swallows, the adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Blood is moving to my cheeks, making me glow. I stutter, then catch my words.

“I’m… honored, Ced. Really.” That’s honest. His jaw tightens. _Honored._ So stupidly formal. “I—yes. I mean, it is what it is now, right? I’m…” Cedric’s grip on my hand slackens. _No_. I want this. I’m sabotaging. Harry’s face strikes my memory. “I like you, Ced. More than you know. But… I’m in a hard spot… with Harry.”

His eyelashes flutter. His face strains, trying to understand. It's silent between us, his lips parted, wet — waiting.

“I don’t want to say no,” I tell him, honest. “But I’m scared to say yes, too. For them.” My friends. _Harry_.

Cedric swallows and stares into the water. Dammit, Vera. You’ve gotten yourself into something.

“I get it,” he finally says. I exhale. “I shouldn’t have… I should have known better.”

“Dammit.” I speak before my thoughts finish. “I want to say yes.”

“Then say yes.” He looks hopeful again. Shit, Vera. Stop. “You just said he was harmless. And Potter and I — we’re mates. Sort of.”

I breathe out a laugh. “And he's given me hell for it, Ced.”

He nods. “Right and loyal, you are. It’s what makes you so… good.”

 _Good_. _Me_. Those two weren’t often lumped together. I'm struck by the foreignness of his statement.

“I’m sorry, Ced. I don’t want it to — change things.”

“Stupid title anyway,” he says through a defeated smile. His voice is low, unflinching, almost angry. The good Cedric is fighting with the real one. I feel guilt. “Vera, your loyalty — the loyalty they all — your friends..."

“Yes?” I urge.

“I hope you save some for me.”

 _Fuck_. Cedric is mature. Perhaps too mature. I feel ice water in my veins. Blimey, what the hell is he doing with me? He’s too good for me. I know this. But he’s looking down with wonderment, his amber eyes moving all over me. Suddenly he’s closer, his hands reaching for my face.

“Can I still do this?” He whispers, fingers coming in contact with my cheeks, cupping my chin lightly. I couldn't say no if I tried. It won't leave my chest.

“Yes,” I whisper, and lean into his lips. I want them. I’m terrified of how utterly better Cedric is than me. I have this one selfish, fleeting moment for now.

No. This is good. This is what I want.

I kiss him again, determined.

~*~

"You said _no_?" Hermione hisses across the table. It's evening study hall — Harry and Cedric are nowhere to be found, and Ron's leaning over Dean's shoulder at the top of the table, leaving Hermione and I alone for once. I bring a finger to my lips, gesturing for her to hush. Hermione's head sinks into her shoulders. "Sorry."

"I didn't say no," I whisper. "But I _can't_ say yes."

"For Harry's sake?"

"Yes." I say it quickly. She nods once, concerned. 

"Vera, I don't think Harry would _care_ anymore—"

"Rubbish. He'll just lie about it, and bitch back to me. I won't have it again."

She sighs, seeing no end to my stubbornness. "Well, don't you _like_ him?"

I take one slow bite into an apple, then pull it from my lips and dig my nail into the side of the cold, red skin. Hermione's eyes follow my fingers. I can't decide what to say. I see her point — and I see the conversation unrolling, keeping me honest.

"Yes," I say, confident. "But I — I don't much like being dragged around under him."

Hermione's lips split into a warm, smart smile. She's just confirmed a theory about me — that I'm uncommitted. Scared as hell. That it's not bravery or loyalty — it's fucking _fear._ She grins, blinking slow. She stifles a chuckle. 

"Shut up," I whisper, lowering my head back into my journal. "Say a word of it, and I'll petrify you."

Her eyebrows jump. "No need. I can respect _that_. Stuck under some hero's shadow. You're too smart to be there, Vera, _believe_ me."

I look back at her to see the jilted smile has turned to a sympathetic grin. I'm grateful for Hermione, brightest witch of our age. I smile back and take another slow bite of my apple.

And suddenly, the world slows down — my blinking grows slower. The light of the Great Hall, a faded, yellow blur, starts slipping until it disappears, and then I’m lost, in the past.

An old memory. Summer before school. _Not now_ , I beg, but my brain is gone — and my body is here now. I've traveled to another time.

I lean over the edge of the railing, down into the bottomless Quidditch pitch. Damn scary. Wizards shuffle behind me, speaking a hard, Eastern European language. To my right, my father merges into view, his tall form and long, draping robes falling behind him. He streams a rough hand through his dark hair.

“Fair tickets,” he says over the noise, leaning into the railing. I nod, looking down into the abyss of the Quidditch World Cup. One loose screw and I’m dead.

“More than fair, I’d say," I whisper back. 

Artemis comes up behind us, dressed distinctly more like a woman than a girl. It’s just my father and sister, by personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge in the Minister’s Box. A few other brownnosing officials creep in the background, but apart from a spare reporter and Artemis, I’m the only girl in the box. 

“Lucius.”

I hear the man’s name before I see his face. Father turns, smiling at his old friend. I turn grudgingly, unwilling to make eyes at the sallow, silver-haired man. I hate him. 

“Phineas,” Lucius hisses back, thrusting a hand at him. They shake. 

My eyes fall on the person next to him: Draco, his father’s companion, under a dark suit, his eyes — colder than usual. A whole summer has passed. He’s distinctly taller, with the fire of youth exchanged for something more… sad. I narrow my eyes, trying to understand. A haircut? The silver hair frames his stony face. His jaw is more prominent. Angry, even. He’s...dressed well. His eyes dagger me for a moment before breaking under the strain, and jumping to the floor.

“I see you’ve brought your girls,” Lucius says, eyeing Artemis with a smile and sniffling when he sees me. “Tickets to spare this year.”

“Yes, the Minister was quite generous.”

“Pity your wife didn’t join.” Lucius is looking right at me.

“Real pity,” I snap back. Draco tenses. “But you should’ve seen her when she heard you were coming. Paled over. Thought she might be sick.” Father’s hand jumps to my shoulder, squeezing. 

“Forgive her,” he says, smiling weakly at Lucius. “She knows better than to be disrespectful.”

“A bit of a temper,” Lucius replies, glimmering. “We know how to manage those.” Draco exhales loudly. I don’t notice. I’m glinting at his stupid father.

“Draco, my boy,” Father says, moving the hand on my shoulder to the spindly, silver-haired boy across from me. “Looking more like your father everyday. A man now.” 

Draco nods. It’s a good thing the Minister enters the box then, because I’m on the verge of saying something rude. Instead, the crowd of social climbers parts like the Red Sea, letting Fudge trifle through as he nods awkwardly at each of them.

“Phineas. Welcome. Fine children,” Fudge says. I glower back.

“Thank you for the seats, Minister,” Artemis says. Eager to please.

“Ah, yes, all good and well. Your father’s done great things for me lately. Much deserved.”

I almost feel the Malfoys seething.

As the room fills with people, I lean against the railing, staring into the arena. It doesn't take long for him to find me. Almost like clockwork, a shadow moves to my right, and a dense mass fills the space. I exhale, fighting a smile.

“Saw your friends,” Draco whispers. I jerk back, inching away from him. _Too close._ “Those Weasleys, all up on the top somewhere. Scrapped for tickets, likely.” He smirks, mimicking my lean over the rafters. 

“Bet they’re having a hell of a lot more fun than you,” I retort. I've looked forward to this, setting Draco off. He’s so easily… upset. But he doesn’t react how I want. I want him to cringe away, scared for what I’ll say next. He's unflinching. Looks like he’s outgrown his fear of me. 

“Didn’t get the invite from them?” he spits, bothered. “Shame. Figured it was only a matter of time before your friends realized how annoying you are.”

I smirk. “Me? Annoying? Flattering to know you’re paying such close attention.”

I had, in fact, been invited by the Weasleys. Of course. But my parents are sensitive about my status as a blood traitor. It’s funny business. Their daughter — a sympathizer, disguising herself between mudbloods and blood traitors. “A shame,” people say, “a shame a girl from such a great wizarding family has gone that way.” I never saw it that way. And my parents, regardless of the quiet disappointment, are parents. My younger sisters don’t know different. Just what their fellow Slytherins see: blood traitor.

But the Malfoys. They’re lying in wait, anxious for power. Ready to pounce on the next opportunity. It’s why Lucius follows Fudge around so robustly, tipping him off, tantalizing the school. Every time I hear his name, I shudder. Stupid man.

I’m sick of Draco. I let my hair build a wall between him and I, drowning him out. 

I scan the top of the pitch for the Weasleys. They’d be easy to spot. And sure enough, just east of me, the gaggle of redheads whoop and holler on the uppermost row. I smile, spotting Ginny and Hermione among them. And Harry. There’s another boy, too, faintly familiar — but not a Weasley. 

I stand upright, smoothing my dress, and begin beelining for the door.

“Where you going?” Draco asks, as if he has a right to know. 

I ignore the hell out of him and strut into the rafters.

“Vera Grey?” Mr. Weasley shouts when he sees me, smiling under his cap. He parts, making room so I can sidle past. Good hell, the wind is wild up here. At the sound of my name, the others turn — mostly Weasleys, an unusually windswept Hermione, and the handsome addition I noticed before. _Ah_. Cedric Diggory. 

“Good to see you, sir,” I say, shaking Mr. Weasley’s hand. Immediately, Fred lunges, yanking me under his arm. 

“Did you come here for me?” he flirts, tucking his head onto mine. 

“Vera!” Hermione shrills, elbowing Fred out of the way. “You’re dressed… up.”

“Minister’s Box,” I remind her. “Have to dress nice for the sweaty Ministry men.”

"Yuck," Ginny whispers.

A few of them chuckle. 

“A bit less wind, though, I expect,” Mr. Weasley laughs warmly. 

Ron, who’s far too absorbed in the match, only waves. It feels good to be here. Refreshing. And Cedric — the tall, brooding stranger — is actually no stranger at all. I, like any Hogwarts girl who breathes (and even those who don’t), have had a distant, impossible crush on him since first year. 

“This is Cedric,” Hermione says matter-of-factly. 

“I know,” I reply. Cedric’s head tilts, and he looks at me with a little more than a smile.

“Do you?” he asks, surprised.

Humble of him. I’m not sure I believe it. “Certainly. I keep my eyes peeled for your kind.”

"My _kind_?" He's taken by surprise. The others go quiet, listening.

"Prefects." I smirk.

His smile drops just slightly. “Right.”

“Glad you found us,” Harry interrupts, eyes darting between Cedric and me. “Good holiday?”

“Fantastic,” I say unconvincingly. Harry nods. He isn’t loud about his feelings, but the way he inches ever closer to me, or questions me, or looks brokenly away now. I dread it. He’s my friend. And I fear the day he looks for more in me. 

Hermione squeezes my arm, pulling me close, out of Cedric’s range.

“You run into Malfoy?” I ask automatically. “Said he saw you lot.”

“Less humble about the Minister’s invitation than you were,” she scoffs. “Did your family come?”

“Just Arty and me. With my father, of course.”

“Glad to hear you got the invitation,” Hermione notes. Only she knows how cold my family can be.

“Hardly,” I mutter. 

Suddenly, Fred and George are backing away from the railing, and he’s moving closer. Cedric. 

“So, Vera Grey,” his quiet, low voice says my name like silk. I collapse against the railing again, turning my head just slightly to see his timid smile. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Not sure I want to know,” I say. 

“Probably don’t,” Ron pipes up.

Cedric smiles, staring back into the noise. “I hear the best kind of stories. From Artemis.”

Shit. “Wonderful. The real dirt.”

“I suppose so. Is it true you stuck a chair with pins for your sister to sit on? That one seems the most… wild to me.”

I swallow. Next to me, the twins chuckle and Hermione’s eyes are bulging.

“It’s true.” 

“Quite the prank,” George coughs.

“It’s not a prank, it’s pure evil,” Hermione states, horrified. “How old were you?”

“Old enough.”

The boys laugh. Cedric is enjoying this. Funny. Most people look at me like I’m crazy.

“I’ll spare you the others,” he says, the smile unbroken, “but it’s nice to know what we’re dealing with here.” 

Holy hell. The smoothness of his voice and kind, adult smile. Most boys are eager to catch my eye, but some dare not. And Cedric doesn’t demand my attention the way others do — egging me on, eyeing me down, poking at rumors through friends. No. Cedric doesn’t demand anything.

I turn away, into the game, just as the Irish erupt. I hardly notice. My heartbeat is stammering in my ears.

" _ **Vera?**_ _"_

It's Hermione again, in front of me — in her robes, her tie. Her eyes are wide with horror. As I blink, the scenery falls back into place. Hogwarts — the Great Hall. Crackling, humming fires and echoed whispers fill my ears. Did I... travel back in time?

I'm not sure.

I blink back at her. She snaps once, in front of my eyes. "Vera."

"I'm good," I say, but it's panicked. "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

_No._

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

Hermione's face is pale and concerned, eyes boggled. How far out did I go? Was I having a seizure? I swallow, clearing my throat, then busy my hands with my quill. I have nothing to write — I just want Hermione's eyes off of me. My heartbeat quivers in my ears, thinking back on the lucid moment as if it had just happened.

 _Just_ happened.

But it hadn't. It was the summer before school. I scratch the quill hard, nearly breaking the skin of the paper. _Dammit._ What the hell just happened? The smell, the air, everything feels like the Quidditch World Cup. I can see Cedric again with fresh eyes, his dollish face and chin smiling back at me, still a mystery of a boy. 

Without thinking, I stand, tossing myself over the bench.

"Where you going?" Hermione whispers urgently.

"Out." 

It's all I have to say.


	6. Chapter 6

_**DRACO:** _

“Going to bed so soon?”

Fuck, I want to dagger my eardrums. I can’t do anything without Pansy questioning my next move. She watches me now, feet propped on the claw-legged coffee table as I'm upright across from her. I might kill her.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say. “But no.”

Pansy’s face pinks. She looks away, trying to seem annoyed. 

We’re supposed to be studying. Writing a piece for Charms. Stupid. Pansy does the brunt of research and hands it over to me. Selfish, I realize, but I don’t have the energy for that. I won’t be tricked into it. I know how it works in this dog-eat-dog school. I’ll be the Doberman. The rest of them are shitty poodles. 

As I turn, leaving Pansy hanging dry in the common room, it happens again.

 _Again._ The whole room disappears. Shadows glimmer and fade in my eyes, getting blacker. My body reacts — my arms come up in protest. But I can't stop the landscape from twisting around me.

Dammit, I don’t want this. Not right now. But these fucking memories follow me like different dimensions that I slip in and out of. Suddenly, I’m there again. Weeks before term. The Quidditch World Cup.

_Why is she always here?_

Vera.

I spot her golden hair across the Minister’s Box, her full body against the railing like a ragdoll considering death. Dammit. One wrong move and she’s over the edge. My instinct is to grip the black fabric of her dress in my fingers and yank her back, but I stop myself. 

I move toward them in my father’s shadow. It’s been a whole summer since I’ve seen her. She’s done growing — her narrow, dainty frame and menacing eyes are the same. Aged a bit, I suppose. Maybe it’s that hair, pulled over her face and fastened behind her head with a black ribbon. Always. She looks so feminine and regal. It’s a bloody ruse.

Once my father engages Phineas Grey, Vera is left to stare at me. Take me in. Her eyes linger longer than she likes. I catch myself enjoying her gaze and stifle a cough. She jerks away, staring absently into the pitch. _Hm._

“I see you’ve brought your girls,” my father says. “Tickets to spare this year.”

“Yes, the Minister was quite generous," Phineas Grey responds. He's so kind-faced and unbothered.

“Pity your wife didn’t join.” I feel my father's eyes drift to Vera, as if her mother should stand in her spot.

“Real pity,” Vera snaps. _Shit, don't do it, Vera._ “But you should’ve seen her when she heard you were coming. Paled over. Thought she might be sick.”

Her father’s hand clutches her shoulder, squeezing. His eyes don't even budge. He's so bloody used to it. I can feel my father's rage building as he shifts, leaning over his cane. He always thought the Greys were soft.

“Forgive her,” Mr. Grey says, almost... somberly. “She knows better than to be disrespectful.”

“A bit of a temper. We know how to manage those.” My father turns to me, grimacing.

“Draco, my boy,” Phineas says kindly, reaching for me. “Looking more like your father everyday. A man now.” 

_Great._

Once the adults shift into a new conversation, I move audibly to the railing. No one else to talk to here. Not that Vera's any bit pleasant — but she's the only person here who I know. And heckling her sounds appetizing.

“Saw your friends,” I say, leaning to her ear. She flexes, caught off guard. Her face twists with disgust. “Those Weasleys,” I continue, picturing the sickeningly happy classmates I saw earlier, “all up on the top somewhere. Scrapped for tickets, likely.” It’s sadistic, really, how much I enjoy this.

She’s quick. “Bet they’re having a hell of a lot more fun than you.” 

“Didn’t get the invite from them?” I jab. “Shame. Figured it was only a matter of time before your friends realized how annoying you are.” 

She smirks. “Me? Annoying? Flattering to know you’re paying such close attention.” 

I forgot how much I hate her. I’m not sure when it happened — years ago, I expect — but I hate her with every fiber of my being. 

“Smart ass,” I mutter. I don’t want her to hear. _Smart_. I’d never be caught dead giving Guinevere Grey the slightest upperhand. How indecent would it be to smack her?

Her hair falls between us. That hair is poison. Long, drawn golden waves. It isn’t blonde, or even a dishwasher color: it’s iconically golden. Like the sun. Warm, buoyant. Silk. From the moment she had enough of it, people gawked. And none of her sisters have anything close. After a moment, she rolls her eyes and steps away, straight for the door.

“Where you going?” I snap. She can’t be giving up that easy.

But I’m wrong. As if I never existed, she ducks under the entrance, slipping past the security detail, and disappears into the rafters. I hate how long I wait for her to reappear under the doorframe. Minutes. An hour. Every time there’s a flicker of a robe, or stream of hair, my eyes jerk that direction. But it’s not her. Small talk with Ministry hotheads is not nearly as fun as bothering Vera. I miss it.

Dammit, where is my father? He’s disappeared. After an hour, I step into the rafters. A gaggle of wizards brush by me, speaking some dirty, rough language. I start moving toward the loo. The match must be getting tighter, since the rafters are empty, quieter. 

The men’s bathroom isn’t far off the Box. I’m about to duck in there when I hear a sharp, low voice from inside the room.

“Get them out as soon as it ends.”

“It’s ridiculous, Lucius, you can’t be serious —”

“It’s the future, Phineas. A future that’ll make you strong. Don’t you want that for your family? Your posterity?”

My father is speaking. He’s using language I’ve heard before — some sort of sales pitch. Some daunting, wild future. Some political idea, I think. I strain to hear.

Phineas Grey is there, too. He sighs.

“I put my faith in the future, Lucius. Not the past. My daughters. We have to protect them, give them their liberty—”

“You mistake me, Phineas. Freedom means nothing unless we keep our kind safe.”

“We’ve never had a problem before in history—”

My father laughs. “We both know the truth of that. You are a powerful ally, Phineas. Be smart. Be brave for your girls.”

Phineas is distraught. He exhales loudly. “I don’t want to talk about it now, Lucius. You get my girls out of here. You’ve brought your own son here. How do you plan to get him—”

“ _My_ _son_ will obey me.”

Phineas is flustered. 

“Do not panic, Phineas,” my father tells him evenly. 

“You’re going down a dark hole, Lucius,” his friend replies, angry. “You mark my words. This is a mistake.”

The sound of Mr. Grey’s shoes begin slapping the ground. I jump back, scrambling as far back as I can to appear casual. He steps out the door, sees me, and brushes past. My father is alone in there. I’m not in the mood to be alone with him, so I head back to the Box.

What the hell was that about? I’ve been wondering for weeks what my father’s been onto. His friends appear more, demanding privacy. His stoic, stone face is frequently lost in thought. My mother looks… concerned for his health.

I duck into the Box, nearly barreling into Vera.

"Watch it," she hisses, dodging me. _Bitch._

But for whatever reason, I’m relieved to see her. Perhaps it’s the conversation I’ve just overheard, which is still making my pulse race.

Phineas Grey is on the other side of the Box, leaning into Artemis’s ear. He says something that makes her tense. I move to the edge of the Box to enjoy the match, but my heartbeat is stammering. _What is it that someone as composed as Phineas Grey can get riled up on?_

I hover alone, drinking, in the corner of the Box. I feel Vera to my right, quiet — unbothered. Watching the game. I notice how warm her cheeks are, flustered. Her hair is wily, windswept. She looks... wild. Her eyes are exploring, deep in thought. Where the hell could she have run off to? It claws at me, stupidly.

After a few minutes, the Snitch is caught. It’s over. People erupt. Ministry officials are shaking hands. I’m watching Phineas Grey move urgently our direction, Artemis at his side. I feel the iron teeth of my father’s snake head jab my shoulder. He peers down at me through his slit eyes.

“Time to go,” is all he says. 

“Draco — Vera,” Phineas Grey says, gesturing for us. I obey. Vera merely stares back. “Get back to the Portkey—now.”

“I’m going to celebrate with my friends,” Vera retorts. Mr. Grey shakes his head, gripping her shoulder. 

“You’re not,” he orders. “You’re going home, now. Promise me.”

Artemis, who’s been briefed, grips her sister’s arm. Vera shrugs out of the grasp. _Of course._ Vera will make this fucking harder, the more they try.

“No. I’m meant to meet up with my friends—”

Phineas Grey doesn’t waste a moment. He puts her warm, rosy face between his hands, jaw set, and hisses through grit teeth, “Go home. Now.”  
It seems to work. Vera turns, angry-eyed, and moves to the door.

“Draco, accompany them,” my father demands. “Straight away.”

“You expect us not to ask questions?” Vera shouts. If she were my father’s child, he would have smacked her, upside the head. He still might. Instead, Artemis grips the collar of her coat and drags her toward the rafters, turning back for me.

“You remember where to find it?” Phineas Grey asks, his voice rising. Vera shrugs. Artemis nods confidently. “Good. Don’t lose track of each other. And go straight there.”

I fall in step behind them, silent. Artemis is wrangling Vera’s coat as we muster through the crowd and out into the raggedy campsite. It reeks of alcohol and fire. 

“Get off me.” Vera jerks out of her sister’s grip. Artemis rolls her eyes. Then, embarrassed by her behavior, she turns to me. 

“Good match,” Artemis says, smiling warmly. I don’t respond.

“You're not even a little concerned?” Vera hisses. “Not like him to get us out of there like that.” 

Artemis huffs. “Did you see the crowd? The Irish celebrate like savages. Wouldn’t want to get caught in it.” She’s taller than Vera — more domineering — but tragically more plain. Even with womanhood on her side, she doesn’t compete with Vera’s youthful, rare beauty. Vera moves on, unbothered.

I’m lagging as they climb the hill. It’s just us, apart from a few spare parties on their way home. As soon as we’re midway up, Vera turns to face me.

“Out of breath?” she taunts.

“Keeping away from you,” I shout back. Vera pretends not to hear, climbing further. I turn, gazing out at the campsite. _Savages_. What a grimy way to celebrate. Then I see it, on the north end. A fire. Spreading.

I go quiet. Long, deep flames sear the tents, turning everything ablaze. Noise is picking up — chaos. 

“You just learning to walk?” Vera shouts. She turns, but her gaze follows mine, into the camp. I hear a gasp escape her chest.

“Draco!” Artemis shouts, running now to the Portkey. Throngs of people at the campsite are moving towards us, climbing the hill like ants. Running. I turn and begin to sprint. I jerk past Vera, who's lips are parted, staring over the valley. She doesn't move.

“Dammit, Vera, let’s go!” I scream, shuffling past her. I approach the lamp where Artemis kneels, panicked. Vera stands a few yards back, watching the people climb, unnerved. _What the fucking hell?_

“What about father?!” she shrieks.

“He's safer than we are, Vera, run!” Artemis screams back.

“My friends!” Vera begins moving. _No_. I’m upright, without thinking, outrunning her. I grip her shoulders just as the crowd catches up to us — and it's mayhem. We're swarmed in bodies. Arms, legs, shrieks, violently shaking the ground. I grip her arms, frailer in my fists. It’s an unfamiliar closeness, her skin. I’m not used to feeling her frame in my hands.

“You don’t know where they are,” I hiss. She wriggles against me. No. I’m not letting her do this. She tries to resist, but it’s different from when we were children. When she was stronger, more... violent. I was once the weakling next to her. Now, I’m stronger than she is. I sling an arm under her waist, lifting her with ease, dragging her toward the Portkey.

“Let me go!” she protests, kicking.

“No,” I demand, then grasp the Portkey.

We spring into the air as the landscape twists, trees and wind rupturing as the setting becomes Astrum Palace. The red glow and screaming falls mute. We land in the gardens of the Grey's home, perfectly manicured, moonlight dripping across the shrubbery. I land facedown in a patch of moss and feel Vera under me, her waist still crushed beneath my arm. She wriggles to her feet and stumbles away, thrusting dirt off her dress.

“Don’t _ever_ touch me again,” she warns. My blood is hot. She looks at me to make a point — be sure I see her rage. Instill fear. No. It doesn’t work. I give her the same bored expression as always. 

“Running right into the fire?” I say to her, rigid. Artemis is in a full sprint toward the manor, forgetting us. “Bad time to be a hero.”

She jerks her head to look at me. I don't expect it, the rage in her eyes. Wilder — nearly red with blood. I stutter as she steps up to me, her face inches under mine, her finger pointed to my chin.

"You're not even _bothered_ by it. What's going on? What do you know?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't be stupid."

She clutches my arm, wringing it in her hand. _Dammit, that's a grip._ It almost hurts.

"What happened tonight?" she says through her teeth. "You know something. Your father's involved."

I wrench out of her grip. "Really? Going to point fingers now, are you? Careful who you point to."

"Lie, then. Go on. Deny it. You don't know a _thing_ about what your father's capable of, do you?"

"And do _you_?" I check my volume. But there's no need for it. Vera explodes back at me, stepping into the space again. She nearly smiles now. It's sadistic — fucking cruel.

"I've watched him line up my friends for death. Deny it all you like, but he's into something dangerous and evil, Draco. And if you go with him—"

"Stay the hell away from us, Vera," I hiss, cutting her off. _That’s enough_. I turn toward Malfoy Manor, just down the way. It won't be far to walk.

_If you go with him..._

_If you go with him..._

What, Vera? What the hell will you do about it?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucky Chapter 7. Time for the Yule Ball.

_ **VERA:** _

It's been weeks since it happened. That twisted lucid dream. _Dream?_ No. It was too exact — too _real._ I never told Hermione about it, but I've been living in fear since. Not sure why I keep any secrets from her. She seems to know something's off. Besides, she's bright enough — maybe she could stop whatever's happening to my head.

Now it's the thick of December, just after exams.

I follow Cedric toward the Ravenclaw Tower as night falls after supper. He’s happier today, more alive. It’s easier to be with him when he’s not unnerved by Triwizard tasks. He’s warm and chatty with everyone we pass, slowing us down. The Clearwater sisters. Professor Babbage. A Ministry official I don't recognize, but claims to be in cahoots with my father. _Yeah, hm, I'll bet_. Once we’re finally free of people and clambering up the stone steps, Cedric smiles at me apologetically, then twines his fingers with mine.

“Finally,” I say, unkind. Cedric chuckles.

“Chatty group,” he says. 

“People should respect your space more,” I retort. “Everyone wants a piece of you. It's vain.”

He cocks his head, smiling. “Vain?”

“They like you for their sake. They want to get close to you. Be your friend. Feel the glory a little.”

He stops in the staircase, turning into me and sinking a hand around my waist. “Only one person gets all that.”

I smile against his mouth as it grows closer, his lips lingering over mine, tempting me to lean in. But no. I don’t believe it. I’m certainly not the only person getting Cedric’s time and energy, and it hurts a bit. Selfish. Then again, I'm not giving him everything _he_ wants, either. I have no right—

He lowers his lips into my neck, running them along the hollow of my collar, his hands sliding up my waist, threatening to graze over the sweater on my chest. My body reacts, flushed with adrenaline. I push him back and roll my eyes.

“False,” I remind him.

We’re moving again. The moonlight stalks us as it jumps between windows, arching to the top. We step onto the landing. The cold air bites. Cedric’s warm arms fall over my head, wrapped around my neck. I fall into his back as we move toward the lookout.

“Vera.” He says my name smoothly, not looking for a response. “Never thought I’d be here… with you.”

I chuckle darkly. “Lucky you.”

He tightens his grip, breathing a laugh into my ear. The hot breath sends a shiver down my spine. “You've got the lot, you know. Beauty. Charm. Too much of that, I think.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Not sure Rita Skeeter would agree.”

“Good. She's got bad judgment. Nosy bitch.” 

I chuckle against my will. Cedric is too kind — too sweet. The word struggles coming out of his mouth. He squeezes me tighter. We look out over the blackening grounds, whirling in the moonlight.

“You see too much good in me,” I tell him. It escapes before I can stop it. “I’m not… really a good person. Not as good as you, at least.”

“Doesn’t seem that way.” He breathes in my ear, a whisper. I feel his hands getting anxious, fidgeting. _Of course._ He’s not interested in this conversation. He wants to do something else. “I’d be damned if someone said you weren’t a good friend.”

“You can be a good friend and still be a bad person," I remind him.

He laughs. “Stop saying that,” he insists, then leans in to kiss me. His wide, soft hand holds my face, drawing me closer to him. It's tender, the way he kisses. Kind, just like him.

 _Fine_.

I kiss back, letting his tongue slip between my lips. He braces me gently with his mouth, but his hands are more anxious now, shuffling under the folds of my shirt, eager for skin. I lob his tie out of the way, loosening it so I can get to the buttons. _This is more like it._ I undo them urgently. All the while, his hands continue to wander my virgin skin, finding the clasp of my bra almost too quickly. I jerk away before he can undo it.

“Whoa,” he says before I can exhale. _Whoa_. I lean back in, breathless, immediately pushing my tongue between his lips to bend, discover. 

I let him touch me again. The cold fingers startle my stomach, inching close to the crest of my breasts. As they grow closer, the butterflies jolt inside of me. What do I do? What am I supposed to do? Where do I touch? I’m new to this. I’ve kissed a few people, and my flesh remembers it — their touches. But I realize… this is far as I’ve gotten before.

My breath hitches as his fingers brush the inside of my waistband, prying the skirt from my back.

 _Do it_. 

Then suddenly my skin is untouched. He steps back, red-faced, guilty.

“Well,” he says, wiping his mouth. I run my sleeve along my own mouth, stifling a laugh. “That’s something.”

I raise my brows, waiting for him to reach again — rip the buttons from my shirt, flush my skin with his hands, knead me between his knuckles. Nothing. He’s watching, waiting for me to usher him forward, fall into him again — let his hands wander past their polite barriers, wrenching the skirt away, touching me. 

I... don't. 

“It’s cold here,” I say, coughing again. He nods, apologetic. But his face is confident, as usual. He knows what to say.

“It is,” he says. “I’ll… save that one, for later.”

_For later._

_~*~_

_The Yule Ball_

  
“How do I look?” I ask Hermione. The tapered pink dress sways at her hips, squeezing her frame, her skin looking warm, milky. She’s prettier than ever, exposing just the right amount of everything. “Can’t believe we’ve done it.”

“Done what?” she asks, a singsongy joy in her voice. She smooths out the dress.

“We’ve taken _two_ Triwizard Champions.” I’m mostly joking, but she glimmers at me. 

“Three,” she whispers. She’s right. Harry is one of us, too. I lob my head around the corner and see him, on the bottom step, talking angrily to Ron. Ron. _What the hell is he wearing?_

“Just need one more,” I tell Hermione. I reach to tousle out her dress. “Think we can seduce Fleur? Might be a team effort.”

She chuckles and rolls her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she says, smiling. But her eyes sell her out. She’s… nervous.

“This is the best you’ve ever looked,” I remind her. “Honestly.”

“Only because you did my hair.” She touches the tousled brown curls. “I wish you would do it everyday.”

“I really am good.” I touch them, too, tucking one behind her ear.

She glimmers at me, kind. Damn kind face. I wish I looked like her. People love a warm person. She’s simply oozing kindness. I've got deep eyes and angry, dark features. Maybe that's why my mother always put a bow in my hair — it made me look... kind. I begin to step around the corner, but Hermione chokes, gripping my arm.

“We can't go down the same time,” Hermione insists. 

“Why not?” I nearly shout. 

She chuckles. “You’ll cast an absolute shadow over me. I mean it. Stay back.”

“Rubbish.” I roll my eyes, but step out of the way obediently. Besides, it’s better. I can watch her from here, as she peers around the corner, hesitant, then begins gliding down the staircase. 

Stunning. Harry and Ron both turn, shell shocked, mouths open like guppies. Harry swallows and turns away, but Ron is dumbstruck. From behind him, Krum steps forward, bumping shoulders with Ron. I watch his eyes grow, realizing, then sink into tiny black holes. Krum takes Hermione’s hand, kissing it. She smiles and turns my way. Ugh. As Viktor tries to pull her away, Hermione waves at me. _Come on_ , she mouths. 

_Fuck_.

I move around the corner and begin descending the stairs. Dammit, why did I wait so long? Most of the couples are crowding the door now, linked up. As they spot my dress and my hair glistening in the candlelight, they turn. _No, don’t look._

I’m searching for one person. Where the hell is he?

Harry is staring blankly up at me. His lips are parted, eyebrows folding into each other, serious. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was angry. No. He’s analyzing. Trying to decide how to feel. Ron, next to him, is equally perplexed. My heartbeat is screaming in my ears.

Where is Cedric? He told me he’d meet me here.

I’m locking eyes with the other boys, and girls, too. Their faces are… stunned. Perhaps it’s a surprise to see me — dressed like a doll in a black gown, wearing soft, feminine makeup. Hermione said it made my eyes bluer. Maybe that’s why they’re staring. My hair is softer than usual in long, bodied curls. Usually it’s tough and wavy. Now, it shines. That’s it. That’s why they’re staring. New hair. 

My eyes keep scanning. 

Finally, from the middle of the crowd, a pair of eyes lock with mine.

Draco. 

We stare at each other. His eyes are the color of ice, making my blood cold. That futile, furious stare. Is he angry at me? _Hah._ When is he not? If it were anyone else, I’d break away — end the unnerving contest. But I can’t. I can’t. The image of us, overlooking the Quidditch World Cup, intrudes on my memory. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

He’s wearing a black suit and robes, the most expensive a wizard can own. A silver slant of hair skims his forehead. I find myself wishing it was tousled, relaxed. Damn, my fingers itch to ruffle it up. He’s looking at me urgently. Like he’s about to lunge. 

He looks like a man tonight.

And next to him is Pansy. Choppy black hair, as boring as usual. She looks unspecial, wearing a silvery gown. Her pale arm is slunk under his elbow, exposing a pair of white, gaunt shoulders. Their colors go well together, and it bothers me.

I break my eyes away from him first, trying to slow my pulse down. Why am I so damn warm? Keep looking. Suddenly, from between throngs of couples, he steps forward.

Cedric. 

Familiar, warm cheeks. Rosier than usual. He’s handsome. He smiles up, the candles glistening in his irises, and reaches out for me.

“Nice robes,” I say. He looks nice, but he takes it as a joke, chuckling.

“Look at you.”

I blush, turning away as he leads us toward the front. People don’t question — they part, letting us through. Trying to catch a glimpse.

I attach myself to him, linking arms as we round the front, toward McGonagall. She shoos Cedric forward. As we pass, she swallows a gasp.

“Lovely, Miss Grey,” she says, pressing a hand to her heart. I nod a thank you.

“Champions,” she continues, facing us now — Harry is behind us, trailed by Hermione and Krum, and Fleur with some striking Beauxbatons boy. I spot Ron’s crimson hair a way’s back, his expression dull. He’s lonely back there, being a bad date to Padma. Stupid. “Champions, you will go straight to the dancefloor. You’ll start our waltz. The rest of you—” It gets quieter, “—take your places around the floor.”

Everyone begins chattering, flirting. Cedric smiles and leans into my hair, lips brushing my ear.

“You’re the prettiest one here,” he insists. My eyes fall to my feet. I can’t look at him.

“People aren’t going to notice me next to you,” I tell him. He shakes his head.

“They won’t even remember who you came with.”

I swallow.

Suddenly, the doors crane open. I feel the cool mist as a haze of snow falls from the ceiling, peppering the stony floors. Shimmering, flocked Christmas trees line the windows and the front of the Hall. It’s transformed into a beautiful, silver ballroom, with candles and chandeliers lighting the room white. I stop breathing as I stride under the doors.

“Incredible,” I whisper. Cedric is as lost as I am. 

“Can you dance?” he asks. I toss my head back, letting my hair fall over my shoulders. 

“Better than you, probably.”

“Right." He sounds slightly defeated. "Forget sometimes that you’re a Grey.”

 _A Grey_. Said with such… distaste. Instead, I tilt my head, smiling weakly. We mount the dancefloor alone, followed by Harry, whose eyes keep jerking my way, and the other couples — Fleur, exceptionally beautiful; Hermione and Krum, smiling timidly to one another, but not speaking. Us.

Everyone watches, whispering. I catch wind of a few words.

_“Her dress.”_

_“Grey.”_

_“He’s so handsome.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Cedric.”_

“You nervous?” he asks, breaking my focus. I straighten, collapsing my arms onto him.

“Not a big fan of all these eyes.”

He grins. “Thought you were a good dancer, Grey.”

“Dancing well and performing well are very different,” I say. “I can easily fool you into thinking I’m a good dancer… but not sure if I can fool them…”

“They’re not here,” he says. His hand touches mine, wrapping my little fingers in his large ones. I ease as our bodies inch closer. He’s so confident. So… easy. “Believe me, they don’t matter. Besides, you ought to be used to it by now—” 

I can hear the orchestra begin to strain. I cock my head.

“Used to what?”

He smiles weakly. What he’s about to say doesn’t bring him great pleasure.

“Being watched by everyone.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m drowned by the ascension of a harp, followed by a string of cheery instruments. Then, we’re moving. Dancing. And he’s right — nobody is here. It’s just he and I, under the silver snow.

~*~

“Damn, these shoes!” I shout over the noise, collapsing into a chair next to Hermione and pushing the black fabric out of the way. The fabric parts scantily over my bare legs as I crane one over the other, pulling at the buckle. I don’t care. My heels are screaming. Hermione is giggling drunkenly. She doesn’t hear me complain.

“He’s… so physical,” she says with a chuckle. “He keeps trying to… what on _earth_!?”

Hermione gasps at the massive blister on my ankle. I drop it, shoving the shoes aside. “Stupid bloody heels.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. What does he keep trying to do?” I beg to know. It works. Hermione’s eyes light up again, blushy. 

“He wants me to leave with him. Should I?”

“Do you want to?”

“I mean… yes, I suppose. I’d like to have a nice chat… in private. But I’m not sure that’s what he’s trying to—”

I don’t hear the rest. Someone moves in front of us. Draco. Pansy. Their hands are intertwined, and they’re beelining for the door. Pansy peers back, smug. Draco looks… excited. Or excited to be leaving. By the look of it, they’re not going to bed. Adrenaline ripples through me.

What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t care what they do. I don’t care that Draco is leaving with her, hand laced around hers, face desperate. His hair is tousled, roughed up. It looks better that way. He might have even been enjoying himself tonight. _Hm_.

_Shut the hell up._

Cedric steps in front of me. I didn’t even see him coming. His shirt falls out of his pants, looser now. The hair is everywhere. He stumbles my way, chuckling, and reaches for me. 

“Tired already?” he asks. I laugh. He pulls my arm, and I fly forward, into his hands. They find my waist, twirling me in the air. He’s right. I want to dance. I grin at Hermione.

“Go!” I tell her, chuckling. “Go with Krum! Tell him if he tries to snog you, I’ll kill him!” 

She shakes her head, rubbing out a sore toe. Cedric pulls me into the throngs of people. Try as I might to be here — dancing with him, wedged between warm bodies, sweating, singing — my mind hovers on them. Pansy. Draco. The sneer on her face. His eyes. 

I don’t know Draco anymore. I did, once. Too well. He was a troubling best friend. Rich, spoiled little brat. He used to bully me, and I’d bully him back — worse. Eventually, we liked that about each other. Admired it, even. We started teaming up, wreaking havoc on Odessa and Artemis. 

It feels like an impossible memory now. Enjoying his company. Enjoying _him_.

Now I loathe him. And I don’t need a reason for it. 

_Cedric_ , I think densely. He’s in front of me, turned into his friends now. He must have moved away when I didn’t notice. Perfect, glowing Cedric. The best in his class. Loyal, friendly. Everybody here likes him. 

Draco isn’t liked. At all. 

Not Draco again.

Damn ADD. I can’t keep my head in one place for more than a minute. I shake my head, letting the memories and buzzing thoughts shudder out of me. Then I reach for Cedric, stepping forward. But as I do, the mosh pit collapses, and someone falls on top of me, stumbling back, the crest of his shoes crushing my toes beneath them.

“Ah!” I scream and fall back. 

It happens in slow motion. Cedric, wide-eyed, lunges forward and grabs me, picking me up like a lightweight. It burns. It _burns_. Holy shit. Hot blood trickles down my foot.

Cedric drags me out of the throng of students, trailed by a stream of blood. A few people part, but most of the crowd doesn’t notice us and keeps dancing. 

“It’s broken,” I mutter through clenched teeth. He thrusts me into a chair and squats, pulling the folds of my dress away. There it is. The injury. A mottled, bloodied big toe, and a growing pool of blood. Cedric reaches for the ridge of his untucked shirt and tears, ripping a stream of fabric and beginning to wrap my toe.

“No!” I shout, but it’s too late. “Ruined a perfectly good shirt.”

He glimmers with a soft smile, focused on wrapping the wound. I flinch as he goes.

“What happened?” Hermione stops over us, firmly planted, even as Krum tries to pull her on. “Are you okay?”

“Not in the least,” Cedric says. 

“Got stomped on.” I squeeze my eyes shut as the pain courses through my foot. “Those sons of bitches.”

“Easy,” Ced says, chuckling. He stands, then slings an arm under me, pulling me from the seat. The dress cascades down my bare legs. We’re hobbling toward the door.

“Wait, no,” I insist. “You can’t leave early—for me.”

“Someone’s got to take you to the hospital wing,” he says gingerly. 

“No hospital wing. It’s not that bad.”

“We’ll let Madame Pomfrey be the judge of that.”

“I’ll take her,” Hermione prods. She’s ready to be done with Krum. He flexes.

“I’m going to do it,” Cedric says firmly. 

That’s that. We make our way to the hospital wing, grudgingly. I moan as we enter the dim corridor, the band drowning as we step away.

“What? Did I hurt you?” Cedric asks.

“No.” I moan again. “This just wasn’t how tonight would go. I had… big plans for us.”

“Oh?” He’s amused by this. Shocking. “Tell me your plans, cripple. Before the big boys knocked you down.”

I smack his chest. He laughs. 

“We were going to sneak into your dorm,” I tell him. His eyes bulge. 

“Fat chance,” he chokes. “Great idea, but fat chance.” He’s right. Ambitious. But it’s the story that counts — and I can see he’s enjoying it, waiting for more. I’ll bite.

“We were going to pull it off,” I insist. “Just us in there. Your bed.”

“Interesting story, Miss Grey.”

“I’d tell you the rest,” I say. We’re rounding the corner toward the hospital wing, which is bright for this hour — plenty of injuries to keep it busy. “But I’d rather show

you.”

He glimmers, shaking his head with a sly smile. 

“What do we have here?” Madame Pomfrey’s prim voice shouts. She gestures to a bed, and I follow. Hannah Abbott is on the bed next to me, white as a ghost, a bucket under one arm. Yikes. Cedric sets me in the bed, pulling my leg up.

“Broken toe,” he says.

“Well, excellent work on the tourniquet, Mr. Diggory,” she whistles. She moves rapidly, pouring some juice into Hannah’s glass, keeping her busy eyes on the injury.

“I’ll clean it up and get a bit of Dittany on it. Perform a curse to get the bones in ship shape, and you’ll be back to better in no time, Miss Grey.”

“How quick?” I moan, disgruntled. 

“Quick enough,” she says back sharply. “Now settle in, I’ll be there shortly.”

 _Dammit, how hard is it?_ My head falls back into the pillow. I need to shape up. I'm being cruel.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell Cedric, as soon as she’s out of earshot. He glimmers, checking the clock.

“I’m not leaving, Vera.”

“You should,” I insist. He tilts his head, surprised. “It’s your last year. There’s no point in you being here. I’ll be out in no time. Go.”

He checks his watch, tapping his foot, and asks again to be nice. “You sure?”

“Yes. Go.”

He reaches down, cradling my hand in his, and kisses the top of it. With one last, brilliant smile, he leaves, and I’m alone in here — the hospital wing. 

“Miss Abbott, you can go,” Madame Pomfrey insists. She’s out of beds. Hannah groans and pushes the bucket aside. _Nasty_. 

The linens are stripped in midair and quickly exchanged for new ones. And it’s good timing — because a pair of people duck into the room. Pomfrey points them straight to the bed next to mine. My stomach sinks when I catch a flash of silver hair from the corner of my eye.

It’s them. Draco. Pansy. Flushed warm, rosy bodies and cheeks. Their hair is both a mess. Of course. Probably had sex in a broom cupboard somewhere. I hope, more than anything, that I’m wrong. Draco’s head is hunched forward with a towel pressed to his nose. He’s bleeding. 

A lot, by the look of it. Pansy tries to ride his coattails, clutching his shirt, but he yanks away from her.

“There, Mr. Malfoy, sit down,” Pomfrey says impatiently. He collapses, easing his head back. Neither he nor Pansy has noticed me yet.

“You can go,” he tells Pansy. It’s not a suggestion — a command. She ignores him, pulling up a spare chair. He sighs softly.

“It’s my fault—”

“Just go.”

She looks away, crestfallen.

“You heard him,” I say suddenly. They both jerk their heads in my direction. “Go.”

“Well, lookee here,” Pansy sneers, suddenly entertained. Her bad mood is almost forgotten. “Fell and broke a skinny little leg, did you?” 

“Thank you,” I say graciously, clasping a hand to my heart. Pansy huffs.

“Oh, shut up, Grey,” Draco hisses. 

“Break your nose?” I go on, ignoring his trite attitude. “Was she that bad?”

Pansy fumes. “I’ll break yours, nasty blood traitor. Think you’re funny, do you?”

“I’d love to see you try,” I say with a smile. Draco rolls his eyes.

“I would,” she decides, then whispering, says, “but not all of us are classless whores.” 

“Right,” I nod. “So you’re just a whore, then?”

She’s about to lunge. Part of me is waiting for it, anxious. But Draco’s cool, cruel voice breaks off her violent thoughts.

“Don’t touch her, Pansy. It’s not worth it.” 

Even I’m surprised by this. I turn to him. 

“You stupid bitch,” Pansy chides. “Think you’re so funny and powerful, just because you’re a Grey? You’ll be one of the first to go when they come for you. Get rid of the mudbloods and blood traitors. I’ll volunteer you first.”

I roll my eyes. I’m about to shout at Pansy when Madame Pomfrey appears behind her.

“Miss Parkinson, it’s quite busy in here. Will be best if you can step out. Need all the chairs I can get. Oh — are you alright, dear?”

Hallelujah. Pansy’s breathing heavy, her hands in two pearly fists. Her eyes jet between Draco and I. Casting one eagle glare at me, she storms out. Pomfrey turns and moves away, suddenly leaving Draco and I.

“She’s right,” he says darkly. “You _are_ a bitch.”

I clench my fist, tempted to break his nose even more. _No. You’ll be expelled._

“Am I right, too, then?” I say jaggedly. “Is she really a whore?”

“Why do you care?”

_I don’t. I don’t. I don’t care._

“What did she do to your face?” I ask firmly. 

“We collided,” he says. He doesn’t want to tell me.

“On purpose?”

“No.” He’s quick. Too quick.

“How?” I beg to know, but my insides scream in protest. I don’t want to know. 

“Not your business, is it?”

“Could be, if you weren’t so bloody stubborn.”

He’s quiet. His eyes unwillingly skim me up and down, gliding the bed — evaluating for injury. 

“What happened to you?” he wants to know. 

Excellent. I pull the fabric of my dress up over my knees, exposing my legs. I bring my foot to my hand and gently remove the tourniquet. A big, purple-and-red toe stares back, the nail loose, blood creeping down my foot. Draco closes his eyes.

“Stomped on.”

“I don’t want to see.” He turns his head to the side. Blood is dribbling onto his collar.

“You never did have a stomach,” I say. 

“You’d like to believe that,” he says snidely. “Think you’d be shocked if you knew the kind of things I've seen.”

Interesting. This isn’t a Draco I recognize. Once a spoiled, catty kid. Now he’s next to me, hair rimmed with sweat, the rush of sex in his face. It’s unrecognizable.

“So, you and Pansy, then? Dating, snogging, kicking each other in the face? Very romantic, well done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says through grit teeth. 

“So you weren’t shacking up in a broom cupboard?” Damn, I’m working hard. “Certainly smells like it.”

“Stay the hell out of my business, Grey.”

For the first time since he’s next to me, I flinch away. 

“Really? Now you care so much? Certainly didn’t give a damn when it was my business.” He rolls his eyes, but I’m not finished. “Off spreading rumors about me. Had my name on the tip of your tongue for days, didn’t you? People followed me around for days, telling me Lucius Malfoy was out for my head.”

“Good hell, Vera, nobody cares now. Always looking to be the center of attention. I probably helped you out, didn’t I?”

I gasp out a laugh. “Rubbish.”

“Not rubbish! Got your dirty hands all over Potter, and now Diggory? Maybe not everyone can see right through you, Guinevere, but I’m not a bloody fool. I know exactly what you’re doing it for. I know exactly how you like it. Get your hands on things and control it all.”

I’m so lost in rage, I don’t realize I’m clenching the sheets. My nails dig into my skin. I could lunge at him. If I weren’t in this bed, I would.

“Shame your nose is already broken,” I hiss. “Wish I’d done it.”

Suddenly, Madame Pomfrey glides between us, hovering near my foot.

“Now, Miss Grey. I usually encourage people to close their eyes for this one… can be a bit maddening, I suppose, to see it all… come back together. Are you ready? One… two… three.”

I clench. A sharp pain ripples from my toe, up my leg, and I let out a scream.


	8. Chapter 8

★★★★★★★★  
 ** _Draco_**

“You look… handsome.” 

  
_Bloody hell, she’s fishing._ What the hell was I thinking? _Pansy_? She’s doe-eyed in front of me now as we stand outside the Great Hall, looking prettier than usual, but nothing special. She slinks an arm under my elbow. I let her in. I knew it’d come to this. I put myself in this position. Maybe I really am an ass.

“Thanks.” It’s all I can say. She stares, hopeful, then her eyes glide down my suit, crestfallen. 

_Yes. You are an ass._

“Dammit, she looks good,” Theodore says behind me. I think he’s talking about Pansy for a moment, until I catch sight of her, too. No. Someone else. At the top of the stairs. 

Holy shit.

Hair falling smooth over her slim shoulders, staring from behind the devil’s eyes, is Vera. _No_ , it’s not her. It’s a different version. It’s the porcelain, silk version of Vera — who’s normally very… velvet? What the hell? My head spins.

She’s both unrecognizable and fully familiar. Her black dress is fine and detailed. Stupidly expensive. It tapers over her shoulders and deep collarbones, exposing her sternum. My eyes follow the crest of her bare skin, unwillingly. I’ve never seen this before. Not from her. She steps slow, eyes scanning for her date. I don’t even want to think of his name. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of fear, paranoia. What is she afraid of?

Then she sees me. She’s still. 

_I’m still._

I’m not breathing.

Why the bloody hell did I stop?

“Stupid bloody expense.” Pansy’s voice cuts off my adrenaline. I swallow, jerking my eyes back. “Classic Vera. Always center of attention.”

She’s jealous. As she should be.

“‘Scuse me, mate.”

Someone pushes behind me, shouldering me out of the way. Him. Cedric. I watch him amble toward her. _Fucking bastard_. Glowing idiots. It's exactly what she wanted... for every head to turn. I cough, forcing my eyes away. Pansy seems to notice too, because her grip cinches tighter, making me wince. 

" _Ouch._ " I hiss, angry. She eases, unapologetic, and frowns. Whatever stunt she's pulling, it's worked. Now all I can think about is the girl under my arm, wondering how I can get rid of her.

**_~*~_ **

  
I can tell Pansy wants out of here — but not alone. Her fingers glide along the fabric of my lapel. She's got sleepy, desperate eyes. Theo’s spiked the punch, and despite _pretending_ not to notice, Pansy is giggling loosely and stumbling like a baby deer. It’s hard to have an appetite for her when she’s so sloppy. 

"Should we leave?" she whispers, sinking into my chest. I grip her shoulders and square her up. The orchestra is clearing out, and the rock band is beginning to bellow. _Yes_ , I think, _but not together_. My eyes protest, moving along the room to find what they really want.

_No. Fuck._

I spent enough time watching every move, each spin, the fucking smiles. 

Blaise and Theo brush by me, loosening their shirts, ready to dance. It’s not my choice activity. But Pansy is blinking up at me with narrow, certain eyes. She wants something else. I have two options. Stay and get swept in this stupid mayhem… or go. With her.

“Okay.” I say. _Shit, what the hell?_

Against my will, my eyes rocket around the room, asking for one last look at her. That's it. 

Pansy chuckles and grasps my arm, pulling me toward the door. _Where the hell did they go?_ Until… there. Cross-legged on a chair, the black fabric parted around her bony legs, rubbing out an ankle. Her hair isn’t the shiny curtain it was before: it’s disheveled, a mess. She doesn’t see me.

I watch at the perfect time. The sleeve dips off her shoulder, exposing the skin along her collar, threatening to slide down. My eyes refuse to move.

“Let’s go,” Pansy eggs, ripping me out of my focus. Dammit. I stumble after her. We move toward the dungeons, to the common room. The halls are empty and echoing. Perfect time to sneak around. 

“Draco?" She breaks my thoughts again. "Didn't you hear me? I'll bet the sixth-years have already claimed the corners in here."

 _Claimed corners_. So that's what we’re doing. Claiming a bloody corner. Putting our hands all over each other. Fine. It’s not my first time shacking up in the dark. But that last was just a sticky dare, really. It’s not hard for me to dig up the hunger inside of me — I do have needs. Desires.

Pansy follows through. "Where should we go?" she says, batting her eyes, but it’s all a ruse. She already knows. She’s guiding me across the common room, into a deserted corner, where the bookshelves conceal us. She scouted this spot before.  
  
But at least she doesn’t waste time. As soon as we move into the space, she braces me, pushing her hands under my coat, eagerly puffing her chest toward me. Unready, and almost unwilling, that sickly sweet perfume fills my nostrils. It’s a headache. I stifle a groan as her mouth closes in on mine, and our wet, hungry lips collide.

Fine. I’ll do this.

I feel Pansy, but my mind is scuffling. Vera. The black dress, gathered around her. Her legs, her chest, her neck, all flowing out of the fabric. 

No. She’s off limits. I know better, but it’s a hell of a fantasy. I’ve never seen so much of her. And I can’t help but want—

No. Not her. Vera’s a magician. An illusion. A waste of good, magic blood. If she wasn’t so bloody stubborn — if she only had respect for her family, her heritage — she might be one of us. She might be respectable. Or at least _tolerable._

Dammit, _NO_.

No. I need to get rid of her. I have to shake her out—she isn’t allowed in my thoughts. My arms are begging for her. My skin is hungry for something—and not this wiry, cold girl in front of me. But maybe it's enough—

I press her into the stone, kissing her. Her breath hitches as I dive into her neck, aggressive. One hand snakes to her throat, squeezing mildly, as my tongue moves down to her collarbones. _Vera’s collarbone_ s. I kiss harder. She melts under my hand. I can feel her squirm, and I try to avoid a glimpse of her hair. It’s easier to pretend this way.

Vera. Her dress. Her terrifying, drilling eyes. The silky hair. My fingers yearn for her hair, twisting in the soft strands, wishing I was running my lips along her jarring, white collarbones. Pansy disappears. It’s her now. I won't stop her from being here, disrupting my body—my mind—

My lips move over the crest of her breasts, where the last of the fabric remains. But before I can push it away—

 _WHACK_. My head jerks back. 

“Gahhhh.” Is that sound coming from me? A hot pain ripples from my nose. I let go, stumbling backwards.   
“What… the hell….”

Suddenly it’s Pansy, in front of me again. Bloody hell. She’s gasping for air. 

_Holy shit. Did I—?_

“Draco….” She coughs. “Are you trying to KILL ME?!”

“Sorry,” is all I can muster. Something warm runs over my lips and into my mouth. Blood. I grasp my nose. And quickly, as if I hadn’t just dangerously cut off her airways, Pansy gasps with fault.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to — dammit, come with me. I’ll get tissues.”

I follow her out into the light of the common room. Ugh, I want to kick her. I shuffle the pang of guilt away. _How bad was it? What the hell was I thinking?_ Pansy keeps turning, looking at me, nervous. As she should be.

“Should I—should we go to the hospital wing?”

I groan. This wasn’t the direction I anticipated tonight, but I’ll take it — it’s a third route, the one less traveled. And I get to be away from Pansy.

“I’ll go,” I say, but she hovers.

“I’ll take you.”

“I don’t need your help,” I shoot back. She flinches away in embarrassment, but won’t give up that easy.

“Not by yourself.” She shoves a spare tissue in my face. I wrench it away and storm to the door. The sound of her annoying, pattering feet follow me into the corridor. We glide down the hallways, unspeaking.

As soon as we stumble into the hospital wing, Pansy reaches forward, clutching my arm like a hero. I edge out of her grip. 

“Just go,” I beg Pansy as Madame Pomfrey points me to a clean bed. I move to it, closing my eyes, making the smallest bit of a scene. Pansy’s eyes are watery. Good. It’s working. But no. She’s scraping a chair across the floor, forcing it next to my bed. Bloody hell, I can’t get rid of her. If she doesn’t go soon, I might scream.

“You heard him. _Go_.”

Shit. No _way._

It’s Vera next to me, lounged like a fucking goddess on this dingey hospital bed. _Good hell. Of fucking course._ Her dress is spread like a crow’s black wings around her petite, bony frame. Legs are propped up, toes exposed with a mottled injury. 

“Well, lookee here,” Pansy hisses, regaining all the energy I'd choked out of her. Vera smiles like the devil. “Fell and broke a skinny little leg, did you?” False flattery.

“Thank you,” Vera says, smiling. _Dammit, Pansy, you should know better._

“Oh, shut up, Grey,” I say before I can stop myself. My fingers itch to smack her.

She’s looking at me now. Dark, smoky streaks of makeup are melting around her eyes, making them bluer than ever. The devil’s eyes.

“Break your nose?” she asks me, hopeful. “Was she that bad?”

“I’ll break yours, nasty blood traitor. Think you’re funny, do you?” Pansy can’t stop herself. Her eyes skitter to me, seeking approval.

“I’d love to see you try,” Vera tells her, entertained. Her confidence is truer than Pansy's. More... real.

“I would, but not all of us are classless whores.” 

I sense Vera’s response before she makes it. “Right. So you’re just a whore, then?”

Pansy flinches toward her.

“Don’t touch her, Pansy,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “She isn't worth it."

For a fleeting moment, Vera’s face falls.

“You stupid bitch,” Pansy chides. “Acting however the hell you want, just because you’re a Grey? You’ll be one of the first to go when they come for you. Get rid of the mudbloods and blood traitors. I’ll volunteer you first.”

Vera rolls her eyes. Before Pansy can speak again, Madame Pomfrey rounds the corner, standing trite over Pansy.

“Miss Parkinson, it’s quite busy in here. Will be best if you can step out. Need all the chairs I can get. Oh — are you alright, dear?”

Hallelujah. Pansy’s jaw tightens as her eyes move between the two of us. She wants to stay. She thinks she’s some protector of mine. Or maybe she doesn’t want to leave me alone with this bloody temptress she hates so much. Hm. I like that. She turns and leaves.

“She’s right,” I tell Vera. “You're a bitch.” It feels good. Hating her feels good. Vera looks like she might lunge, but it softens quickly under an unsatisfied smile.

“Am I right, too, then?” she asks, smiling smugly. “Is she really a whore?”

“Why do you care?” I snap. She hesitates. Good. I like watching her… stumble for words.

“What did she do to your face?” she asks.

“We collided.” 

“On purpose?”

“No.” That’s all she’s getting from me.

“How?”

“Not your business, is it?”

“Could be, if you weren’t so bloody stubborn.”

Bitch.

“What happened to you?” I suddenly ask.

Like an angry, wild Persephone, she pulls the fabric of her dress up on her leg, exposing the bloodied toe. I hardly notice it at first. My eyes are following the fabric up… and up.

“Stomped on.” She says. Then I see it, and flinch. Gah, why isn’t she screaming? It’s bloody and mangled.

“I don’t want to see,” I say.

“You never did have a stomach.” Eye roll.

“Think you’d be shocked if you knew the kind of things I've seen.” 

She exhales. And as her breath leaves her chest, the dress grows looser on her shoulders, threatening to fall again, exposing her gaunt, white chest. I watch, against my will.

“So, you and Pansy, then? Dating, snogging, kicking each other in the face? Very romantic, well done.”

“You don't know anything about me, Grey,” I hiss back.

“So you _weren’t_ shacking up in a broom cupboard? Certainly smells like it.”

“Stay the hell out of my business.”

“Really? Now you care so much? Certainly didn’t give a damn when it was my business.” Shit, here we go. “Off spreading rumors about me. Had my name on the tip of your tongue for days, didn’t you? People followed me around for days, telling me Lucius Malfoy was out for my head.”

“Good hell, Vera, nobody cares now. You love it, don’t you? Always looking to be the center of attention. I probably helped you out, didn’t I?” I’m shouting. 

“Rubbish!”

“Not rubbish! Got your dirty hands all over Potter, and now Diggory? Maybe not everyone can see right through you, Guinevere, but I’m not a bloody fool.” She flinches at the sound of her name. “I know exactly what you’re doing it for. I know exactly how you like it. Get your hands on things and control it all.”

Her face blushes warm. The devil’s angry eyes are back. Persephone. Livid. The goddess throws her golden hair over her jarring shoulders and takes a deep, furious breath. 

“Shame your nose is already broken,” she says, quiet. “Wish I’d done it.”

Madame Pomfrey, our valiant savior, moves between us, clicking her tongue at Vera’s purple foot. Comedic timing. I roll my eyes, relieved to break my eyes away from Guinevere. At last.

“Now, Miss Grey,” Pomfrey says, rolling up her sleeves. “I usually encourage people to close their eyes for this one… can be a bit maddening, I suppose, to see it all… come back together. Are you ready? One… two… three.”

I hear the crackling of bones. Vera won’t scream. But she might break a tooth from biting so hard. She groans and leans back.

“All finished,” Pomfrey says, applying Dittany. 

“Holy shit,” Vera says.

“Language, Miss Grey.”

She waits a moment. “Thank you, Madame.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” I hear. Vera’s dress tumbles down her legs. She’s standing to go. “Here you are.”

I don’t have time to brace myself. The bones in my nose crackle, and a fierce pain shrieks through my face. 

“OW!” I yell. Pomfrey flinches back, startled. She’s afraid of me. Most professors are.

Vera, collecting herself and smoothing out her dress, rolls her eyes.

“Oh, relax,” she gasps. “Can’t be anything worse than anything your father’s ever done to you.” She grimaces as she says it. But an impulse ripples through my body, and I lunge at her, close to her face. I grip her shoulder. That warm, white shoulder. Suddenly Vera’s looking at me through startled, fearful eyes. 

“Don’t ever say that again.” I force myself not to... hurt her.

She blinks back, then her eyebrows dip into an angry row. “Don’t touch me.” She wrenches out of my grip. My fingers suddenly long for her — unexpected. Even through the rage. Or maybe it _is_ the rage. Something’s wrong with me.

Vera turns and leaves, and then I’m alone again, unbroken.

Or maybe… more broken than before.

Before I can realize which one, I follow her out the door, and watch her run barefoot down the dim hallway, toward the chaos and the party… toward him… her dress cascading around her like a pair of wings. 

No. No.

No.


End file.
